


once a king or queen of fillory

by Nemainofthewater



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: AU-the beast never happened, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dark, Don't copy to another site, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Julia made it to brakebills, Kidnapping, Martin is a drama queen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Beta Read, Oops?, Panic Attacks, Platonic Soulmates, Psychic Bonds, Todd is a good friend, complicated family relationships, dark themes, gods are not nice, margo is the best, margo's potty mouth, seriously messed up, the background Julia/penny/kady has become very much foreground, tick is a dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-04-10
Packaged: 2019-10-12 13:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 32,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17468822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nemainofthewater/pseuds/Nemainofthewater
Summary: High King? Yeah, they left some details out of the job description.There always has to be a High King or Queen in Fillory. And they always have to be Children of Earth. Once a High King or Queen of Fillory, a High King or Queen of Fillory for life. However long that may be.In a universe where Fillory is even darker and more sinister, Eliot becomes the next High King.Complete!!





	1. Prologue: Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> This is very angsty, probably OOC. Sorry?

_Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen or Narnia._

-C.S Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the wardrobe

_The rulers of Fillory can only be from Earth_

            -Quentin Coldwater, Have You Brought Me Little Cakes

 

_Fillory. A land of magic and wonder. The inhabitants of Fillory will never know loss, or hunger, or sorrow, or heartbreak so long as a High King or Queen rules the lands. To rule and be ruled is an honour that is only given to the Children of Earth, for magic runs in their blood that calls to the magic of Fillory. Once a king or queen of Fillory, always a king or queen of Fillory._

Eliot has always dreamt of Fillory. He doesn’t know it of course. How could he? His father already had a low opinion of his son: he would have never let Eliot get away with filling his head with made up nonsense when he could be out helping his brothers look after the crops and making himself a man.

 

But from childhood, every night as he collapses exhausted into bed, his dreams are filled with wide green fields, flying forests, and air that smells so sweet that he can hardly bear it when he wakes in the morning.

 

Eliot…Eliot has always been strange. Never quite fit. Nothing like his father, who despaired of making anything of this strange, fey child. Noting like his mother who stood to one side and whose silences spoke volumes. Nothing like his elder brothers, sturdy and grounded like the earth that they work.

 

Eliot dreams. He imagines doors opening where there should be no doors, a sweet smell and laughter drifting out. When he looks into the mirror, sometimes out of the corner of his eye he spots a ram’s horns, powerful and strange, curling upward like the branches of an old oak. Sometimes when he’s so angry that he’s fit to scream, things start to shake.

If Eliot had been born even a few hundred years earlier, he might have been burnt as a witch. And he knows it. Feels it every day.

 

The other children can feel it too. Especially Logan Kinear. Athletic, and casually cruel as all children are, Logan Kinear is the bane of Eliot’s childhood. Neither smart nor stupid, Logan is defined only by his ability to run fast, and his innocent eyes. Green, and when shining with soft tears (please I don’t know why Waugh’s upset, I just wanted to help him, he pushed me you saw him didn’t you? He’s mocking me again, you’ll never be anything, you think that you’re better than me, but you’re exactly like us, you’re nothing special) he waits for Eliot on the way back from school, up the dirt trail from where the bus drops him off. He waits for Eliot whenever he walks into town. He waits for him before school, and after school, until it feels like everywhere he turns he can see Logan’s innocent green eyes sneering down at him. Eliot takes it. He takes the bruises and his father’s quiet disapproval and his brothers’ incomprehension. Until one day, he doesn’t.

 

CRASH

 

After…IT…happens, after the blood has been cleaned up, and the ambulance has been sent screaming back down the road, the dreams change.

_Come to us Child of Earth. Come meet your destiny._

His dreams are still of paradise. But there’s an additional longing, the knowledge that if he could just find a way through the door then everything would be ok. The first time he’s allowed a lie-in, once he’s finally left himself behind and embraced his new self, he lies in bed for hours, chasing the elusive feeling of warmth and safety. Alcohol helps, it allows him to drift through his days peacefully, it dulls the longing.

 

Doors open around him, but no matter how hard Eliot runs he can never reach them before they slam shut. He’ll be sitting on his bed, staring vacantly down at some test that he has to revise for, when he’ll smell it. The bewitching scent of freedom and he’ll know that if he just looks up then he’ll see a light glowing from behind his cupboard door and hear the sound of laughter. He’ll run over and think maybe this time. He never makes it.

 

Eventually he stops looking up. Eventually he gives up. He gets on a plane and leaves. He brings one suitcase of clothes, perfectly pressed, things that would get him thrown into the dumpster behind his school, cries of ‘faggot’ echoing behind him. The product of years of savings, carefully retrieved from dark space underneath his bed where he pushed them down only taking them out when he’s sure he’s alone, running his hands down the soft fabrics and wondering.

 

In his darker days he wonders if his family know that he’s left. In his darkest he knows that they’re wondering why he didn’t leave sooner.

 

He reinvents himself. He was never allowed to take art at school (what damned sissy are they trying to make out of the boy) but if he had he knows that he would have had top marks for his project. Becoming him is the greatest creative project of his life.

 

Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. They’re not nothing. They’re not everything.

 

Until… he steps through the door of some skeezy club and trips into one of his dreams. There’s a breeze, and the sun is hurting his eyes. There’s a wide expanse of green grass, unnaturally green, and quiet. The kind of quiet he hasn’t heard since he left home, the kind of quiet that feels wrong after the bustle of New York. The air though, the air smells wrong.

 

“Hey, fuckface.”

 

Eliot blinks. That had definitely not been in any of his dreams.

 

“Yeah you, Huckleberry Finn’s country hick of a brother. Some of us have places to be, so shut your fucking mouth and get moving.”

 

There’s a goddess standing before him, real and present and solid the way that no one, himself included, has been for the last year or so.

 

Eliot draws himself up, smugly noting that he has a good seven inches on her at least despite the threateningly pointy stilettoes that she’s wearing.

 

“I’m sorry Bambi,” he purrs looking down into her wide brown eyes (deceptively innocent like Lo-NO) and licking his lower lip provocatively. “I hadn’t realised that my mouth was so,” he pauses for a second relishing the thick tension, the sense of drama in the air, “distracting.”

 

He breathes the final word into her ear languidly, waiting to see how she’ll respond.

 

“Oh my god guys, just bang already!” someone yells from across the lawn, and the moment’s gone as she furiously turns and starts stalking toward the imbecile, ready to destroy them utterly.

 

But when they find each other after the exam, after magic (after Eliot sees doors opening around him, taunting him even here) and she (Margo, whose name should be Regina, or she-who-destroys, or goddess) lets him drape himself over her, Eliot knows that something momentous has happened.

 

Magic comes to him instinctually, and he drinks and forgets and tries not to think.  Magic has always come to him instinctually (glasses rattling, a crash, screams, the sound of crying): the real trick is getting it to fuck off and leave him in peace.

 

Life passes in a haze, and that’s just the way he likes it. Only occasionally do things break through his carefully cultivated distance (margo, the sound of a door opening in the hall, cute freshmen with unfortunately annoying friends) until Mike.

 

Mike.

 

Eliot has had many, many lovers. So many that they blend into one another in a haze of sweat and drugs and primal need. But Mike is different. Eliot looks at Mike and he feels the longing in his heart that is echoed in his dreams, that makes him think of sweet air and rolling fields.

 

It’s hard to care, because things aren’t usually worth caring about. Things disappoint you. People disappoint you. You live and then you die. But Mike…

So of course he stabs Quentin. Of course he’s some part of a godly plot to kill Julia, who’s way over her head summoning gods as if any higher powers would ever give a fuck. Why else would he be interested in Eliot, if not to use him.

 

When Mike breaks out of the clean room, Eliot is waiting in the hallway. And when magic bursts out of him, shockingly easy, Mike collapsing to the floor like a rag doll…

 

A door opens. And Eliot steps through it into the sweet air of his dreams.

 

_You must be wondering why they set it up that aliens must rule Fillory, and I’m sure there is a great reason, and nobody has any clue what that is. Ember and Umber set it up, and they’re not that into explaining their big ideas._

 

-Quentin Coldwater, Have You Brought Me Little Cakes


	2. Quentin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath in Brakebills.

It turns out that being heroically injured is actually kind of boring. Not the jumping in front of a knife for a friend bit (and how cool was that!) but the bit that comes afterward when he’s stuck in a bed in the infirmary, trying not to pull his stitches.

 

Quentin is re-reading ‘The Girl Who Told Time’ when the commotion starts. At first, he ignores it because he’s in the infirmary, right? Years of watching shit soap operas with Julia have conditioned him to some sort of drama in any medical setting (although admittedly the drama he was thinking about was more along the lines of the lead surgeon sleeping with two separate nurses or something.) Plus, in the few hours that he’s been lying in this bed he’s seen three students come in demanding narcotics, two Healing students break down over finals, and Todd who’d fallen out a window while high, and should probably come with some sort of warning label.

 

“Get your fucking hands off me!”

 

At this, Quentin definitely looks up, because that sounds like Margo. A genuinely upset Margo, not an-upset-but-also-performing-for-the-plebs Margo.

 

“I don’t know what happened! I swear there was a door and he stepped through, but I don’t know where it went or how he cast it.”

 

Julia?

 

“Ms Hansen! Stop that at once!”

 

Quentin swings his legs over the edge of his bed, wincing slightly at the tug in his side. There’s no way he was going to save Julia from a knife wielding madman only to have her murdered by Margo Hansen and/or expelled by Dean Fogg.

 

Luckily, they’re only a few feet away, otherwise he thinks that Lipson would have killed him for ruining her work, and he staggers and basically falls next to where Dean Fogg is lowering Julia onto a bed of her own.

 

Julia’s looked awful for weeks, ever since she snuck back onto campus a month ago covered in blood and shell-shocked, bruised in places that make Quentin want to go out and hit something until the thought of it goes away. She hasn’t talked about it, not even to him, but Quentin’s not stupid. He’s seen the forbidden textbooks full of battle magic that she shoves under her bed whenever he comes by her room with food.

 

She still looks fragile, with deep shadows under her eyes, and her hair matted with blood.

 

“Jules,” says Quentin helplessly, “What happened?” He reaches out to-hug her? Hold her hand? -and tries to hide how much it hurts when she flinches away from him.

 

Margo snort contemptuously.

 

“I’ll tell you what happened. Little Miss High-and-Mighty decided that the rules didn’t apply to her, and probably got my best friend killed!”

 

What? What’s happened to Eliot? Quentin hasn’t seen him as he’s been a bit busy healing from a frikkin stab wound, but he realises with a pang that with Margo in Ibiza, Eliot wouldn’t have had anyone to help him deal with the fact that his boyfriend was apparently a homicidal maniac.

 

“I told you that he isn’t dead.” Julia snaps back.

 

Dean Fogg, looking as if he deeply regretted everything from the Big Bang onward, interjects quickly:

 

“Perhaps we could have Ms Wicker tell us what happed.”

 

He holds up a hand, cutting off whatever Margo was going to say.

 

“Without any commentary.” He pauses. “Perhaps you had better sit-down Mr Coldwater,” _before you fall down_ goes unspoken, but Quentin gratefully collapses into the chair next to Julia’s bed.

 

“I-“Julia starts hesitantly. And it hurts Quentin because Julia has never been hesitant. Unapologetic in her search for knowledge, of how to make things better, kind, befriending a kid who only wanted to hide in his head, fierce standing against the world. But never hesitant.

 

Dean Fogg waits patiently, and Quentin is reminded that Julia is likely his favourite student; it must be hard for him to see her this way as well.

 

“I wanted to see him. Mike. Whatever possessed him. I, I needed to know. Whether it was because of _him_.”

 

“Him?”

 

“Reynard,” she whispers, “I know that he can control people. Can make them do things that they don’t want to do. He can’t get through the wards, but I thought that with Mike he’d found a way in. A way to get to me. I needed to see him. I needed to see whether Reynard had ruined his life, like he’s ruined mine.”

 

“And Mr Waugh?”

 

Julia flushes, the colour vivid against her sickly skin, and looks down, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

 

“I just, I couldn’t do it on my own. And Eliot-he was hurt by Mike as well. He wanted to come, he offered.” Julia says, looking straight up into Margo’s eyes. “I didn’t force him.”

 

“Of course he did! Eliot’s a walking death wish covered with a thin layer of fabulous. He probably jumped at the chance of this sort of self-sacrificing bullshit because he’s never learnt that not everything is his fault and that he’s just as much a victim as Mike was.”

 

“Ms Hansen, this isn’t helping. If you can’t control yourself then perhaps you shouldn’t be here.”

 

Margo scowls.

 

“Fuck that. The one good thing you did was getting me back from Ibiza because evidently you need someone with a bit of intelligence!”

 

“Ms Hansen!” Dean Fogg thunders, and Margo stops talking, although she doesn’t look happy about it. Quentin is guiltily glad that he wasn’t expected to return to the Cottage for another few days, because Margo Hansen on a rampage was not something that you lived through unscathed.

 

“No it’s ok,” says Julia, “I know that I fucked up.”

 

“No Jules,” Quentin says reaching forward for her carefully. She doesn’t flinch this time when he carefully strokes her hair away from her forehead. “You were trying to help. It’s not your fault.”

 

“But I didn’t help. I couldn’t do anything when Mike broke free. I don’t even know how he managed to that in the clean room! But Eliot,” Julia swallows a sob, “Eliot…he was waiting outside. He said he wanted to give me a moment, that he’d come in afterwards. After Mike threw me into a wall, Eliot. He. He killed him. And then it was like he just stopped. His face, it was just blank. And then a door just opened behind him, and he turned around and walked through it.”

 

Dean Fogg frowns.

 

“We found no evidence of any portals in that corridor.”

 

“I’m not lying, I swear! There was a door, and leaves were blown out and sunlight. And there was this smell, sweet and- “

 

Dean Fogg cuts her off.

 

“A sweet smell?”

 

This detail seems to perturb him more than an unexplained portal. He stands abruptly.

 

“I think I might know what’s going on. I need to contact a consultant to be sure. But if I’m right then Mr Waugh isn’t dead. Not yet.”

 

He strides out of the room on that ominous note, leaving the three of them alone in an awkward silence.

 

Julia is trying not to catch anyone’s eyes, Margo looks shattered and like she’s viciously burying her worry for Eliot by planning ways to kill them both, and Quentin is wondering how his life had become even more of a tragedy than before he found that magic was real.

 

No one speaks. Margo doesn’t leave. Lipson treats Julia’s head injury, looking disapprovingly at Quentin who ignores her and commandeers the bed next to Julia’s. Margo is picking at her perfect manicure until her fingernails are little bitten down to the quick. Three hours later, the door finally opens, and they look up.

 

A tall man enters, walking strangely. Quentin can see there’s something off about his hands: does he have twelve fingers? Quentin shivers, suddenly feeling as if he’s in the presence of a predator.

 

“Good afternoon,” the man says, his accent polished and very English, “I’m sorry to have to meet you in these circumstances but Henry rightly thought that I may have some experience that might help.”

 

“And who are you meant to be?” Margo demands.

 

The man extends a hand, and yes he definitely has six fingers, politely in a handshake.

 

“Martin Chatwin,” he says matter-of-factly, “Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”


	3. Fen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fen takes part in an ancient ritual.

The new High King doesn’t look like anything special. Tall, stretched out like he’s had a recent growth spurt and hasn’t managed to put on any weight since. He’s young, but they all are. Even unconsciousness can’t hide the pain in his face. He has a tight furrow between his brows, and his eyes are sunken and gaunt.

 

Her father kneels by him, and carefully runs a special blade across his palm. The blood looks garish against his skin. He nods solemnly at Tick who nods back at him and makes an imperious motion at the guards around him, who carefully lift their new sovereign onto a vine covered stretcher and take him away to be prepared.

 

Fen shivers. She knows that it’s a great honour to be chosen, but she isn’t sure whether she’s ready for this. She has known that it was Fillory’s turn next: everyone knows that. But she hadn’t realised that it would happen so soon, that Loria’s High Queen would decline so quickly. It was naïve of her: once they reached a certain point, they all went swiftly.

 

“You, girl.”

 

Fen turns to see Tick pointing at her. She bows quickly.

 

“Yes?” she says, and her voice remains steady. She is the knifemaker’s daughter and his successor, she is an integral part of the magic that binds and protects Fillory. She is the future.

 

“Come with me,” he says, “Your father says that you’re ready.”

 

Fen looks over at her father, and he gives a sharp nod. As she moves past him, he presses the enchanted blade into her hand, still tacky with blood. An honour, she reminds herself, it’s an honour.

 

She walks behind the procession, a few rows back from the stretcher. As they make their slow way to Ember and Umber’s temple, people stop and stare. As she watches, a young child runs up to the High King, and lays golden wildflowers next to his curly head. When none of the guards react, other children find their courage, and soon the High King’s a riot of colour, flowers placed all around him. It looks like a funeral procession, and abruptly Fen feels sick.

 

She hurries forward and keeps her gaze down. She can’t stand to see the looks of hope and awe on the faces of people she’s known all her life.

 

They don’t know. They can’t know.

 

The twin gods’ temple is peaceful and cool, with an air of serenity. Soberly clad attendants overseen by the high priest take the stretcher from the royal guards and carefully lay it on the alter, brushing the flowers to the ground.

 

The High King’s garments are stripped from him, and despite the situation Fen blushes. Having lived in the same small village all her life she hasn’t seen many naked men, and she is pathetically grateful when an acolyte drapes a loose cloth over the High King’s groin.

 

He is quickly washed, and then sweet-smelling oils are used to anoint his forehead, hands, and feet.

 

Fen makes her way beside him, and lifts his hand, still bleeding sluggishly. At an impatient sign from Tick, she firmly presses it against an indentation on the alter, stained a rusty brown over the years.

 

There’s a flash, and then they appear. The twin gods of Fillory, Ember and Umber. They are majestic, clothed in simple linen garments with horns curling away from their heads. All around her, people drop to their knees, and Fen hastily follows suit.

 

“Rise my Children,” Umber says, his voice soft and full of love.

 

“The High King’s blood sings to us,” says Ember staring down at the limp figure on the altar. “He is a worthy king: the land will prosper under him.”

 

Ember and Umber move in unison, touching the High King’s shoulder. There’s a flash of power so strong that even Fen can feel it, and the smell of burning flesh disconcertingly similar to the pork roasted over the fire on feast days.

 

The High King finally moves, almost falling off the altar with a scream. But he doesn’t wake up, and when he settles again Fen can see the gods’ seal marked on his flesh, a faded white looking like an old wound.

 

Fen knows her role, though she has never attended a coronation before, and picks up a gold cup that has been set next to the altar. She reaches for the knife at her waist and presses it lightly to the meaty part of the High King’s hand. The flesh parts easily, and she catches the blood in the goblet.

 

The high priest presents her ceremonially with a crystal jar full of water, softly glowing, and she adds it to the mixture. It’s water from the Wellsping she knows, the source of the land’s magic.

 

Finally, with a flash of light a jar appears in Ember’s hand, filled with a pearly white liquid. The seed of divinity. She takes it gingerly and adds the final component to the cup, swirling it gently to mix it. Then she offers it to the deities in front of her.

 

Both Ember and Umber take a long drink from it, and then she takes it back and tilts the High King’s head up to gently feed it to him. He’s insensible, but still doesn’t want to drink it, and eventually she has to force him, softly rubbing his throat to encourage him to swallow.

 

He makes a sound of pain, and the brand on his shoulder starts smoking. After a moment it clears, and Fen sees that the raised skin is now tinted gold and black, shimmering softly with its own magic.

 

“We claim you, Child of Earth, as High King of Fillory,” Ember says imperiously.

 

“We name you Eliot, as High King of Fillory,” Umber continues gently.

 

“The land claims you, High King, magic claims you,” they finish in unison, and then they vanish.

 

The air immediately feels lighter, and Fen thinks that she can finally breathe again. She moves back, and then the high priest and his acolytes are moving past her, arms filled with glittering objects. The high priest reverentially places an onyx crown on his sovereign’s head, and Fen isn’t sure whether it’s entirely her imagination when she sees it tighten. Delicate filigree gold bracelets are placed around his wrists and seem to melt into themselves until there is no seam left, only smooth gold. Fen can see that they’re made of the gods’ sigil, intertwined together so that there is no end. Rings set with brilliant jewels are placed on his fingers, and once again seem to shrink so that they fit his narrow fingers perfectly.

 

Attendants manipulate the High King’s limp body until he is wearing a simple robe. The guards then move forward and place him back on the vine covered stretcher, his hands crossed over each other to show off his bracelets. They carry him back to the middle of the town of Whitespire, just outside the walls of the castle, and place him on another raised alter in the middle of Market Square.

 

“Behold,” Tick proclaims, “Your new sovereign! High King Eliot!”

 

Fen watches as Fillorians make their way up one by one, to see their new monarch.

 

It’s an honour, she repeats to herself helplessly, an honour, an honour, an honour…


	4. Martin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is unhappy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for self-harm

“Are you really sure this is a good idea Henry?”

 

Martin strides up and down in what a less charitable man would call pacing. He doesn’t look at the other man, instead preferring to run his hands along Henry’s leather-bound books softly. He’s always had a soft spot for the written word, despite certain…unsavoury associations that the smell of old paper can bring up.

 

_…a small study, a roaring fire, his nerveless fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt…_

With the ease that comes from long practise, Martin banishes the memory. He doesn’t, however, stop pacing.

 

Henry Fogg is not by any definition a generous man. Indeed, he is more blunt and to the point than even the average American, especially when it comes to the safety of his students. 

“Martin,” he says, not unkindly, “You’ve said it yourself. Ember and Umber have been grooming magicians, good magicians, often from my own school, and using then as disposable power sources.”

 

“Damaged goods,” Martin murmurs. “Who’s to say that they would be able to function in society in any case? By all accounts Eliot was drinking himself to an early grave. We Chosen”- he imbues a certain sardonic air to this word, “-have neither the best of lives, nor the best of coping habits. Perhaps they are doing us a favour, allowing us to dedicate our lives to some greater good before we burn ourselves out.”

 

Henry snorts. He rises from his desk, and moves to stand behind Martin, carefully staying in his line of sight. It’s for the best, Martin supposes, he is still jumpy at the best of times, and with all the memories that this unfortunate incident is unearthing there’s no telling what he would do if he was startled.

 

“You don’t truly believe that,” Henry replies, “Or you wouldn’t have agreed to meet me.”

 

Martin shakes his head. He’s not sure what possessed him to come.

 

“You came because you want to help. Because you don’t want what happened to you to happen to anyone else.”

 

“Was I talking out loud again?” Martin asks. He’s not too worried. It happens. At his age he’s stopped worrying about appearing eccentric: he is after all a white man with an accent; he can get away with some eccentricities.

 

“No. But I know you. I’ve known you for years.”

 

Martin finally sits down, taking perverse pleasure in claiming Henry’s office chair. Henry says nothing, although the set of his mouth does look a little strained. Good. The day that he stops being able to take pleasure in pettiness is the day that he dopes himself catatonic and gives up on the world.

 

“It’s not that simple.” Martin says. “You don’t think that over the years I’ve tried to stop them? Do you know how many Chosen ones I’ve saved Henry?”

 

He laughs bitterly.

 

“None. Zilch. Zero! In fact, over the past seventy years, one could even say that I’ve saved _negative one_.”

 

“Jane’s death wasn’t you fault,” Henry says gently.

 

“Don’t talk to me of my sister, and don’t tell me what I have or have not done.” Martin says tightly.

 

He takes a moment to compose himself.

 

“In any case, even clever Jane wasn’t able to completely save a Chosen.”

 

Martin makes a quick dismissive gesture with both of his hands as if shaking off droplets of water, and the illusion magic melts away. Dull gold gleams around both wrists.  He can almost feel the weight of a crown on his brow, although thankfully Jane was at least able to dispose of that.

 

“I can’t get rid of them. Magic, mundane methods. I even tried taking a chainsaw to them after having consumed a distressing amount of cocaine. Not even a dent.”

 

He presents both wrists to Henry with a particular flourish, a magician’s ‘Tada!’. The brand on his chest itches, but he ignores it.

 

“I can never truly escape Fillory. And so long as I wear these, I’m afraid that I can’t act against Umber and Ember either. Not in word, or deed. It took all of my strength to tell Quentin that the button was likely located in Plover’s house. There is no possibility that I will be any help in this conflict.”

 

Henry rolls his eyes and stands up abruptly. Martin doesn’t flinch but holds himself carefully.

 

“Look at you man!” Henry fairly roars, “You’re a powerful magician, perhaps one of the most powerful on Earth! Magic is pain, and you’ve been through enough of it to power several goddam nuclear missiles. You know the lay of the land, the secret rituals, simple logistics like where they keep the Chosen. Stop blaming the Universe for dicking you over and get over yourself! So, you can’t attack those overgrown farm animals: have you finally wallowed in self-pity for long enough that your mind has atrophied? Or is that that the astounding number of drugs you’ve poisoned yourself with in your fucking search for death have finally made your what’s left of your brain dribble out your ears?”

 

Silence.

 

“Fine.” Martin says at last. “Fine. Once the children get back from their little quest in England, I’ll attempt to drum something of use into their heads. You understand though that they’ll have to be the ones doing all of the footwork,” Martin continues quickly, cutting off whatever objection Henry was going to make, “As I _literally_ can’t work against Fillory.”

 

“I’m sure that we can find a way around that- “

 

Martin snatches a letter opener from Henry’s desk and viciously slices it down his wrist in one practise movement. Blood spurts out, and he takes satisfaction in the fact it will be a pain to remove from the antique hardwood floor.

 

He doesn’t notice his illusion dropping, and it is sixteen-year-old Martin Chatwin that look up at Henry, blood dripping down his arm finally obscuring the hated cuff, a feral look in his eyes.

 

“What-?” Henry starts, but his stops short as he sees the spurting blood subside, and then stop entirely. Martin uses his sleeve to wipe away the red liquid and holds his arm up to display nothing more than a pale white scar. One of many.

 

“They took away my ability to resist in every way possible,” he says. He turns his back and starts preparing a portal. He’s finished being nice. Henry’s guilt trip was successful enough: he’ll help this doomed group, but that doesn’t mean that he wants to stick around listening to ‘motivational’ speeches until then. In any case, he needs to take the opportunity to find enough narcotics to dull the pain of being if he’s to relive any memory of Fillory. Especially since he’s seen the stack of Fillory books on Quentin’s bed, and spotted the fanatical gleam in his eyes as he introduced himself. Perhaps an emotion bottle would do the trick.

 

“Let me know when the survivors return from England, Henry. Don’t contact me until then.” He glances back once before stepping through.

 

“Don’t look so glum Henry!” he says lightly, “Worst comes to worst I can at least act as cannon fodder. And who knows? Maybe it’ll take this time.”

 

And with that he’s gone.

 

“Fucking drama queen,” mutters Fogg.


	5. Ess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ess hates Whitespire.

“I don’t see why we have to go.”

 

Ess scowls into his furs. Fillory is much warmer than Loria, and the air around him is suffocating. It figures, even the weather is trying to kill him. He fucking hates Fillory. Loria… Loria isn’t an easy place to live. The magic in Loria is hard to grasp, and hard to harness. Lorians don’t rely on anything but their own ingenuity to survive: none of this Harry Potter bullshit.

 

And Fillory… He’s travelled to Castle Whitespire four times a year ever since he can remember, all apart from that one year that his mother had sent him to boarding school on Earth. He had demanded to return home almost as soon as he had arrived: he couldn’t bear to live there surrounded by Children of Earth, when his mother… His mother.

 

She’d only been buried a few weeks ago. She’s been slowly dying for much longer. He misses her.

 

“Ess,” his father’s voice is gentle: Ess knows that he did truly love his wife, and that just makes it worse. How he could stand there and do…nothing. How he was the one to bring her to Whitespire.

 

Nothing needs to be said out loud. Loria needs to meet the new High King, to re-establish the old alliances. It’s his duty to his people to make sure that their harvests are plentiful, that their traps are replete with game so that they can survive through the harsh winters. That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

 

Ess straightens regally and follows his father through the imposing doors into the throne room.

 

“King Idri of Loria, former High King consort of High Queen Madison. Prince Ess of Loria, son of High Queen Madison.”

 

Ess winces: did the Master of Ceremonies really have to shout right next to his ear? It’s not like people don’t know who they were anyway: the Lorians had been a very common sight at Whitespire for the last twenty years or so.

 

High King Eliot… honestly, he looks like crap. He is wearing beautifully tailored clothes in shades of black and gold, and his hair is perfectly coiffed but there is a tell-tale redness to his eyes and his skin looks sallow and unhealthy. He’s around the same age as Ess, and he looks slightly younger than his mother had for all her life.

 

There are several guards around him, as befits his new status. They are all heavily armed, but honestly it’s the priests who are more dangerous: they are definitely all on edge here. The kid must be strong.

 

Ess inhales slightly and tries to reach out with his almost non-existent magical senses: the High King feels like pain, only barely dulled by whatever drug he’s been given to keep him pliant. Despite that, the raw power that emanates off him is amazing, and Ess isn’t sure whether that is a good thing or not: it means that he’ll last longer than his mother in any case.

 

The painful straightness of Eliot’s back is unnatural, and the skin around his bracelets looks chafed and raw. That is a feat: Ess knows that the healing should have kicked in by now, so he must be constantly trying to remove them. Squinting at them, Ess can actually see them vibrating slightly. Huh, that was some Charles Xavier level shit. Was Eliot doing that on purpose? Unobtrusively sweeping his eyes across the room, Ess sees that the glasses are humming and seem a few seconds away from exploding. Great, not a futile escape attempt, just bad control over his magic.

 

His father bows gracefully, and Ess hastily follows suit.

 

“Prince Ess?”

 

It’s the first time that he’s heard Eliot speak, and it’s more of a croak than anything, like he’s smoked five packs of cigarettes and chased it down with a couple bottles of rotgut.

 

“Call me Ess,” he replies, mentally bracing himself. Yeah, yeah, it’s not his fault that his parents had a bad sense of humour.

 

Eliot looks at him solemnly.

 

“Dude, fuck your parents.”

 

The irreverent statement is pronounced with all the gravity of either a royal proclamation, or of a person seriously stoned. In his peripheral vision Ess can see that his dad isn’t even angry, instead there is a kind of tenderness there.

 

Ess wonders whether he’s seeing a different future, one where he had managed to inherit his mother’s magical potential. _I could have been on that dais…_

He could have saved his mother years of torment as her lifeforce was slowly drained out of her, if only he had been able to recreate Jane Chatwin’s Act of Love.

 

A familiar bitterness rises in him, the feeling of not being good enough. He starts forward angrily, stopped only by his father’s firm grip on his shoulder, and the guards pointedly shifting.

 

Eliot just blinks down at them.

 

Jeez… his pupils are blown right open. He definitely isn’t all there. Ess remembers, sometimes when his mother couldn’t make it to the festivals, when she insisted that she wouldn’t do it… The clear liquid that her attendants would force her to drink, making her calm and detached for the rest of the day. As a child Ess had thrown screaming tantrums when that happened, had demanded that his mother be brought back. He had hated the imposter left behind. When he had got older and his father had explained more, he had still hated it, but had been less vocal about it. Instead he would sit next to her, petting her hair and glaring at anyone who approached.

 

All the anger abruptly drains out of him and is replaced with pity. Fuck, he can’t do this. He has to do this for his people.

 

The ceremony continues. Ess kneels before the throne at his father’s side, and swear loyalty to the High King, the representative of the gods Ember and Umber, in a loud clear voice. A young female attendant comes out from behind the throne, and gently takes Eliot’s hand. There’s a flash of steel, and then she approaches the Lorians, carefully holding a golden goblet.

 

Ess stares at the proffered liquid queasily. It’s slightly pink, and what is it with Fillory and bodily fluids anyway? He drinks anyway and feels the magic wash through him. Water from the Wellspring, and blood of the Chosen: a heady combination.

 

Necessities finished, he stands and stalks out. Let his father apologise for him, he’s done his duty. Now he needs to go and find something to punch.


	6. Penny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny finds catharsis through explosions.

Penny doesn’t know why he hangs out with these losers. Probably in self-defence: if he hears Quentin geek out _one more time_ about Fillory being real, he may have to kill the little nerd. At least this way he gets to act proactively.

 

He reaches over and slaps him on the back of the head.

 

“Ow!” Quentin exclaims, “What was that for?”

 

Penny scowls, “If you could keep your Fillory boner in your pants…”

 

“I didn’t say anything!”

 

“Fix. Your. Shields.”

 

Quentin scowls, and runs off to Julia, no doubt to whine about how hard his life is. Pussy.

 

Five hours and too many fucking murderous ghosts later, he has to admit he is sort of invested in this now. Quentin’s mind is mind is screaming betrayal and horror, and Julia looks quietly devastated. Alice looks like she’s ready to travel back in time and murder the paedophile, and honestly Alice, same. That dude was a sick fuck. No wonder the Chatwins got the hell out of there as soon as possible.

 

OK, he has to admit that he’s got a small stake in this now. He has to wonder though whether Martin knew exactly how haunted the house was. Did he know that his childhood trauma was playing on repeat somewhere in the assbum of rural England?

 

Whatever man. With no regrets whatsoever, Penny Travels to a nearby gas station and fills up a can with petrol, grabbing a lighter as he goes.

 

“Penny, what are you-“

 

God Alice’s voice is annoying.

 

Penny’s never been great at telekinesis (that was always Eliot), but he manages to crash the can pretty far into the house before sending the lighter in after it, turning it on mid-flight.

 

The explosion isn’t that big, but the fire starts easily enough. Good. It might be petty, but you know what? He can live with that. He feels a flash of triumph to his right, and then Julia is twisting her fingers in an intricate pattern-is that battle magic?-and the house basically implodes. Yeah, they’re not salvaging anything from that.

 

“Julia!” says Quentin, but Alice has a satisfied smirk on her face, and she exchanges a high five with Julia.

 

“Nice work,” Penny says, “Any chance you could teach me that?”

 

Julia nods at him, looking better than she has for a while, and Penny thinks that this act of destruction has been pretty cathartic. Alice makes a gesture and a small wind starts up, simultaneously feeding the fire and making sure that the sparks are contained to one area.

 

“Alice!” Quentin says.

 

“Quentin,” Alice replies.

 

Quentin looks disapproving, but then something in his eyes hardens, and he raises his fingers as if he’s conducting an invisible orchestra. The flames rise with him, until they are towering at least twenty feet into the air.

 

“Nice one nerd,” Penny nods at him. He hadn’t thought he had it in him to be honest. Quentin nods back, a small vicious smile on his face, and exchanges his own high five with Julia. There’s an awkward beat, and then Alice rushes forward and hugs him.

 

Urgh. Really guys?

 

The sound of sirens bursts through the air.

 

“Nice, but dumb.” Penny repeats. Kind of sums up Quentin to be honest.

 

They book it before the first fire engines arrive. And yeah, technically could just Travel directly back to Brakebills. But what the hell. He has no confidence that they will make it back without him, and the fuck he’s explaining this to Dean Fogg on his own.

 

It turns out that this is a good decision from Past!Penny, because Dean Fogg’s eyebrows are raised so high that they look like they’re going to blast off into the stratosphere. 

 

“So to recap, in the course of your task-“

 

“-quest,” Quentin mutters quietly.

 

“Your _task_ to retrieve a magical button which is _the only way_ to get into Fillory without the help of two literal gods, a task where you were meant to remain unobtrusive in case Ember and Umber had watchers on the house to alert them of Martin ever came to retrieve the button, you not only got an innocent bystander killed but also literally caused explosions.”

 

Quentin looks up-

 

“-I think the explosions were justified-“

 

 and dude learn how to take a dressing down-your input really isn’t needed.

 

Fogg looks apoplectic.

 

Martin, lounging in the corner and looking as if he’d rather be anywhere else, finally speaks for the first time since they’d arrived.

 

“Leave them alone Henry, what’s done is done. And honestly, the thought of that house being blown to kingdom come is the best news I’ve heard all day.”

 

Fogg subsides, but there is a distinct flavour of expulsion lingering in his glare.

 

“Now, the most important thing: did you get the button?”

 

Quentin turns star struck eyes to the older man, and nods, apparently speechless. Penny wishes that he’d shut up like that more often, although with his crappy mental shields it probably wouldn’t change much.

 

He reverently takes the button from his pocket, and holds it out to Martin, who recoils as if he’s being handed a live snake.

 

“Keep that away from me,” he rasps, and he’s gone pretty pale, even for a white dude. There’s a flicker, and for a moment Penny thinks he can see a scared teenager, but then it’s gone.

 

Martin clears his throat and straightens embarrassedly.

 

“It won’t do us much good if I accidentally get transported to Fillory, especially since I haven’t trained you lot yet,” he continues steadily, ignoring his previous reaction with a feline nonchalance.

 

“Now, I’ve had Margo going through some advanced poppers to give her a grounding for a few battle spells-she has been taking to them nicely.”

 

Penny bets she has: with the amount of mental anguish she’s experiencing at the moment she could probably ice over the entire school without trying-something he’s sure Fogg hasn’t overlooked what with not letting her out of the school wards since the beginning of this shitshow.

 

“Penny.”

 

Oh shit, did he blank out?

 

“I want you to concentrate on your psychic abilities so that you can attempt to ah, ‘incept’ Eliot and see if we can’t get some intelligence.”

 

Martin fixes him with a hard glance.

 

“This is going to be difficult because not only is he in a different dimension, you also can’t let him know that you’re actually there. He has to think that he’s dreaming.”

 

“Why not?” Alice asks. “Wouldn’t it be easier if Eliot can plan from his end as well?”

 

“I’m afraid not Ms Quinn. You see, Eliot is unable to say or do anything that would be detrimental to Fillory. He won’t be able to say anything at all if he knows that you’re not a figment of his imagination. This won’t last forever, as Eliot is fairly intelligent by all accounts, but if you get enough of a feel for him that you can Travel, or even astrally project yourself to Whitespire, then that will be incredibly advantageous for us.”

 

“What do you mean that Eliot can’t do anything? Like, he literally can’t?” Julia looks like she’s imagining being that helpless, and that her imagination has a pretty solid basis to work from.

 

Martin nods gravely.

 

“You may literally have to knock him unconscious before you can help him. You’re definitely going to have to find a way to break the binding.”

 

He points at Julia and Alice.

 

“You’re going to concentrate on that ladies. Henry informs me that you’re capable of it. I’ll need you to get a solid grounding in different binding rituals. I’m not entirely sure how Jane broke my binding as I was indisposed at the time.”

 

Quentin yelps, literally yelps “Wait, you mean you were-?”

 

But Martin cuts him off.

 

“Quentin, I want you to work with Margo on offensive spells. I heard about your showing during the Welters tournament, and if you manage to harness that at will…”

 

He trails off meaningfully.

 

“Wait, you want me to learn battle magic? I mean wouldn’t Julia, or Alice be better? I mean Jules can already do battle magic-“

 

“And that’s why you need to get you remedial ass into gear and learn some of your own.”

 

Margo is standing in the doorway to the infirmary, looking exhausted with a small patina of frost decorating her unusually rumpled clothes.

 

“So ovary up Clearwater. We’ve got a self-sacrificing idiot to save.”


	7. Todd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Todd is a good friend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This takes place concurrently or just before the last chapter

Todd knocks tentatively on the door.

 

“Margo?” he calls. His arms are draped with garment bags, but he doesn’t put any of them down: he’s found it surprisingly hard to get creases out of silk without burn marks, and he’s pretty sure that Margo would rather have crumpled clothes to burnt ones. Having cool fire powers is actually harder than Zuko makes it look, even if his are more the gently-warm-tea type rather than the redirect-lightning-type.

 

(Being able to redirect lightning would be so awesome though. Or generate lightning! Best party trick ever. He definitely knows that Eliot can make a little lightning ball, but all his attempts so far have ended with only with the occasional spark, and Margo laughing at him. He bets Margo can make lightning. If she had been hunting the Avatar instead of Azula, that kid would have been caught like two series earlier).

 

He’s kind of worried though. I mean, don’t get him wrong, Ibiza was totally amazing, not just because of the orgies (actually maybe in spite of the orgies) but because he got to hang out with Margo, someone he though would never notice him. Sure, it was mostly bringing her drinks but what the hell! But only a few days into the planned week-long holiday, that scary Traveller-Penny-had shown up, and Margo had promptly made herself a portal back to Brakebills.

 

She’d left all her clothes and belongings, as well as at least three planned dinner dates.

 

(Todd knows that they weren’t really dinner dates, or at least dinner wasn’t the thing that was going to be eaten on them, but he didn’t really want to know).

 

Todd decided to finish the holiday as planned-

 

(What? He’s never going to get a chance like this again! Plus, he feels like he kind of owes to Margo to finish the week with a bang, and there were in fact many bangs by the end of the week)

 

-but he’s back now, and he brought all of Margo’s stuff back with him. He was coming back to Brakebills anyway! And he was the one who had carried it to Ibiza in the first place, so it wasn’t like he hadn’t known how to unpack and pack it all.

 

The Cottage is strangely quiet. Even if there isn’t a party on (and let’s be honest, there’s always a party on) Eliot at least is usually draped artistically over one of the couches, or Quentin is having some sort of break down in the common area. But the silence Todd hears is eerie: it makes him feel like he’s stepped into an abandoned temple, or a cemetery. Where the hell is everyone? The first years definitely should have got back from Brakebills South by now. And Margo should have sorted whatever problem had forced her to return early: she should be here stroking Eliot’s hair, both of them as languid as cats, mocking Todd as he struggles to get the bags in.

 

“Margo?” he calls again. Silence. No, wait. A muffled sound.

 

Todd knows that sound. He’s lived that sound. He drops everything. If Margo’s going to kill him for anything, it’s going to be for seeing her vulnerable: hopefully she won’t even see the clothes until he can beg Eliot to help him press them.

 

(And yes this means potential humiliation, but there’s also a 40% chance that it leads to Eliot carefully coaching him through a new spell because: “I’m not going to do it, you’re the idiot that fucked up Todd,” but also because it’s for Margo, and Eliot is strangely sweet when it comes to her and when nobody is watching.)

 

Todd runs up the stairs.

 

Margo is curled on her bed, making small choked sounds. In that moment she looks vulnerable, and fragile and everything that Margo isn’t. As Todd enters, Margo looks up with puffy eyes.

 

For a moment she looks hopeful, but then she registers Todd’s face.

 

She visibly hardens (and did the room literally get colder? Definitely colder, there’s a thin patina of frost on the walls) and she screams:

 

“Get out Todd!”

 

Todd doesn’t run out of the room, and he thinks that it might be the bravest thing he’s ever done. Definitely up there in the top five. Instead he steps further into the room, surreptitiously raising his core temperature slightly.

 

“Hey Margo,” he says carefully, “Are you ok?”

 

Margo lets out a hysterical laugh.

 

“Do I look ok?” she demands.

 

Todd moves to sit on the bed, carefully broadcasting his intentions, giving Margo plenty of time to freeze him solid, or rip out his entrails, or whatever she wants to do. He wants to reach out and run his hands through her hair like he’s seen Eliot do, but he knows that he can’t. He’s not Eliot, and Margo doesn’t really like him on a good day. Instead he just sits there.

 

“Hey, uh,” he starts eloquently, “Can I go and get Eliot for you then? I mean I know that you probably don’t want to see him, otherwise I mean he’d already be here. But I think that he’d want to be here for you.”

 

Margo looks devastated, and Todd doesn’t know what he’s done wrong. Of course Margo would want Eliot, because beneath his insouciance and his drink-to-dull-the-pain-of-existence façade Eliot would do anything for Margo. Hell, Eliot and Margo are the definition of soulmates, and Todd is deeply, deeply jealous. So, if Eliot isn’t here, that must mean…

 

“Oh shit,” he whispers to himself. He looks down. Fuck. He always half thought that one day he’d find Eliot had OD-ed, but a larger part of him saw the older boy as untouchable. Mostly because Margo would eviscerate anything that put him in danger, including Eliot’s self-destructive tendencies themselves.

 

“I can’t even drink myself into oblivion, because that’s his fucking coping method,” Margo says.

 

Todd slumps a bit more onto the bed, and Margo shifts until they are lying side by side.

 

“He’s not dead,” Margo says to the ceiling. “He’s been fucking kidnapped by the ghosts of childhood past, and once we get him back, I am never going to let the twat forget it. He owes me big time for this. He owes me spa days until we’re both seventy and decrepit.”

 

She sits up abruptly.

 

“So I am going to stop throwing myself a pity party, fucking master battle magic, and go get myself some new goatskin shoes.”

 

Her voice wobbles slightly, but the frost disappears from the room.

 

“Hey Todd?” she says.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You weren’t useless. I expect you out of my room before I get back. And if you ever tell _anyone_ you were in my bed, I’ll make you wish I’d turned you into a pig and eaten you.”

 

She leaves, but Todd doesn’t get up for a long while. Finally, he rouses himself, and unsteadily makes his way to Eliot’s room. It looks like a dump, clothes uncharacteristically tossed everywhere: their owner had evidentially been digging through them for the perfect outfit.  There’s one of Eliot’s vests by Todd’s feet: he stares at it.

 

Eliot is coming back, he is.

 

Todd bends down and picks up the vest.

 

And until he does, Todd will take care of take care of the Cottage for him, so that he has somewhere to return to.


	8. Tick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tick has a good day.

Tick hums contently as he looks over the minutes from the last Council meeting. Things are going well indeed. The crop yield is up 0.3% already: various farmers reported that the wheat is literally growing overnight, becoming plump and ripe in a matter of hours. The Dryads are in the middle of a baby boom, with hundreds of new saplings bringing them back from the brink of extinction. A very excited hamlet has reported that a spring just outside the village boundaries has started to produce a fine, full-bodied red wine instead of the weak vinegar-y piss it had been producing previously.

 

All in all, one of the better High Kings in history, potentially the best since Martin Chatwin. And really, he’s easy enough to control if one knows how.

 

Tick’s family has prepared him for this sacred duty all his life. He has studied the sacred tomes at the twin gods’ temple and spent four seasons with the priesthood. He knows the fine line that must be walked between exploiting the High King’s magic and ensuring that he survives long enough that it’s all worth it. After all, the Chosen are few and far between: not many are born with the blood, and of those that are only a select few attain the amount of suffering necessary to truly unlock their potential.

 

Praised be to the Gods, but even Ember and Umber have their limits when it comes to manipulating the events of another dimension: they do all they can, but life-changing tragedies are rather draining: much easier to wait for something to happen and then exploit the weakness.

 

It was ironic really: the more pain a High King endures, the more powerful his magic, the better he serves Fillory, the more magic the gods have at their disposal as they groom the next monarch. Simple. Elegant even.

 

Tick glances at the sun. It is high in the sky, rich golden light entering Castle Whitespire and gilding the white marble. It’s time for the High King to wake. After all, he has got a busy day today.

 

He makes a final note, and then rises. It’s always good to do things oneself: one mustn’t forget where the power comes from after all. He does gather the servants to accompany him of course: there are limits.

 

The High King’s chambers located in the heart of the castle, the most secure area. There are two guards flanking the doors at all time, renowned for their loyalty to Fillory. They are the first line of defence against anything that might want to harm His Majesty, including the king himself.

 

“How was the High King’s night?” Tick asks as he removes a small golden key that opens the bedroom door.

 

The younger guard on the left-Fin? Frin? Filk?-shakes his head.

 

“His Majesty had disturbed dreams again,” he replies. “He talked in his sleep occasionally: something about a penny.”

 

“A penny?” Tick repeats, surprised. “Perhaps he was worrying about the state of the Royal Treasury?”

 

Not that he had to. The tithes have all been successfully collected and the gold producing beetles are more fertile than ever. A job well managed, if he does say so himself. He takes a…personal interest in the treasury.

 

“-And I can’t believe that you’re making fun of me right now. I really thought that any hallucination of mine would be a sight more fun than Penny Adiyodi. Not to mention a lot more nake-“

 

Tick opens the doors with a flourish, and the High King jerks around at the sudden intrusion.

 

“Oh this is perfect,” he groans, “Not only am I hallucinating the most annoying psychic I’ve ever known, and with how infuriating psychics are as a group that is saying something, but now Tick is here.”

 

“Hallucinating your majesty?” Tick enquires politely as he gestures at the servants to enter.  They come bearing food that the High King ignores: well that won’t do. Tick can tolerate a few skipped meals as character building, but he’s not sure that he’s seen the High King eat more than a few mouthfuls since the coronation, and never willingly. High King is a stressful role: Tick can’t have him collapsing. No wonder he’s hallucinating, the poor thing.

 

Still, one problem at a time: if he’s still not eating by tomorrow then Tick will have him spoon fed.

 

More servants start the morning ablutions, removing his clothes and rubbing a soothing lotion onto his chest where the gods’ mark looks as fresh as the day it was made.

 

“Of course it fucking hurt Penny, don’t be stupider than usual.”

 

“Your Majesty,” Tick says delicately, “You are aware that there is no one there?”

 

He waits. The High King doesn’t acknowledge him. This isn’t unusual, although it is a bit disappointing. Tick thought that they had moved past this childish behaviour months ago.

 

“Your Majesty,” he continues valiantly, “I believe that you may need your medicine. We can’t have the people lose faith in you, not this early in your reign.”

 

An involuntary shudder passes through the High King, and rest of the room shudders with him. A handheld mirror cracks down the middle. A couple of the servants stumble, and one trips on the proffered tunic he is holding. Tick makes and annoyed noise and motions at the imbecile to go fetch another one. They are running late enough as it is.

 

“No that won’t be necessary,” he says hastily, “The apparition is fading already. It’s just tiredness.”

 

His grin is sickly and unconvincing.

 

Not eating, bags under his eyes, random objects moving. Oh dear, it is worse than he though.

 

“Your Majesty,” he says reassuringly, although the High King just gets paler, “It must have been so hard for you these last few months. A rather large adjustment period. But fear not sire! We, your humble servants-“he bows with a flourish and notes with annoyance that the High King is rolling his eyes, “-are prepared to help you ease your way into your new position. And if, alas, for now the lubrication you need is your medicine it would be remiss of us not to give it to you.”

 

The High King stares at him.

 

“You have no idea how perverted you just sounded,” he says flatly, and studiously doesn’t look anywhere but Tick’s face. A muscle spasms in his jaw: is he trying to stop himself from talking to the hallucination?

 

That decides it then. Tick makes his way over to one of the servants who is holding an ornate box. Opening it, he removes a crystal vial, filled to the brim with a clear, viscous liquid.

 

The High King swallows and shakes his head. The clattering objects abruptly get louder and one of the windows explodes. He doesn’t attempt to run though: good, he’s learning.

 

Tick moves slowly and methodically prepares the medicine, meticulously pouring seven drops into a goblet of blood red wine meant to disguise the pungent taste: this isn’t a punishment after all.

 

The servants move to gently restrain the High King, but it is almost unnecessary. He is standing stock still, deathly pale now, and shaking like a leaf. The wash water in the basin next to him is rippling in time to his shudders, and it is oddly mesmerising.

 

“Don’t don’t don’t don’t don’t” he is chanting under his breath.  

 

Tick ignores him, and tips the goblet against his mouth, and when he makes no move to drink pulls his head back, carefully avoiding touching the crown. It’s over in a minutes, and abruptly everything is still. The silence is deafening. The High King has a glassy look in his eyes, and they have turned dull. At his wrists, his bracelets glow.

 

“Good!” Tick says cheerfully, “Now maybe we can get back on schedule.”

 

The servants swarm, pushing and prodding the High King into his formal clothes with the ease of long practise. Maybe one day they can forego the medicine. Of course, High Queen Madison had to have a daily dose for almost three years, and then every time she visited Whitespire, so he isn’t getting his hopes up.

 

Later, between petitioners to the court, Tick stares proudly up at the High King, sat upright on his throne. He looks regal, and fairly pulses power. This, right here, is the King that Fillory deserves. And Tick is proud to an integral part of this. All hail King Eliot, long may he reign.


	9. Kady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kady starts a side quest.

Someone is shaking her.

 

“Hey Kady? Kady come on.”

 

She groans. She doesn’t want to get up.

 

“Kady come on, I need your help.”

 

“I don’t think she’s getting up,” another voice says.

 

Why won’t they just leave her alone to overdose in peace?

 

The second voice chants something, and Kady is suddenly, maddeningly awake and sober.

 

“What the hell guys?”

 

She looks up.

 

It’s Julia standing there, looking wan and fragile and determined, and next to her is…urgh. Alice Quinn.

 

“What was that spell?” she asks, because whatever it was just wiped out seven weeks’ worth of careful self-destruction.

 

“Helps you sober up,” little-miss-goody-two-shoes replies shortly. “My parents taught me it.”

 

Kady grunts.

 

“Huh, figures.”

 

Even she knows about the magical dynasty that are the Quinns, known equally for their powerful spellcasting and their batshit parties.

 

She stands, hesitates for a moment before taking Julia’s offered hand.

 

“Why the hell are you here?” she asks bluntly.

 

Alice steps forward.

 

“Maybe we should do this somewhere else?” she says.

 

“Where?” Kady asks, “Not like I’m exactly welcome at Brakebills. Last I heard they’d expelled me.”

 

“I have an apartment.” Julia says, “We can portal there, get you a sandwich or something. Maybe a shower.”

 

A shower. She hasn’t been clean since Reyna-… she hasn’t been clean for a while.

 

“Fine, let’s go.”

 

And she walks unsteadily out. Behind her she can hear a hushed argument, and then footsteps as the other girls catch up to her. Alice takes the lead, bringing them to a back alley and carefully conjuring a portal.

 

“Listen,” Kady says in a low voice, “I’m sorry for all of it. I thought that I could get help or something but in the end I just ran.”

 

Julia puts a careful arm around her waist, and Kady almost flinches back. It’s been so long since she’s had any sort of human contact. _God Penny._ She hadn’t really known Julia at Brakebills, only as the Knowledge student that Quentin always hung out with but after Brakebills… After. They’d got to know each other better.

Alice has finished the portal, so Kady walks away from the things unsaid.

 

The apartment is nice. Large, but she already knew that Julia was rich. She’s just glad that it’s a different apartment than the one where-

 

No. Stop.

 

She makes her way to the shower, dropping pieces of clothing as she goes, and she stands under the spray for a good forty minutes, as hot as she can get it.

 

There’s a sandwich waiting for her when she gets out, but she’s not hungry.

 

“What do you need me to do?” she asks instead.

 

“What?” she says at their surprised looks, “It’s not like you came looking for me because you were worried. I doubt that blondie realised that I’d even left she was so wrapped up with Q, and Julia… It’s been a month and a half since we summoned Reynard. If you’d wanted to find me before then you could’ve. So you need something.”

 

“Yes we do,” says Julia, and there’s something in her tone. Something soft and apologetic, but also hard. Good. That fucking god hadn’t broken her completely, not like he’s broken Kady.

 

“I need your help with a spell. There have to be at least three people performing it, and I thought you’d want in.”

 

A spell of course. That’s all she’s good for.

 

“What’s the spell?” she asks neutrally.

 

Julia glances at Alice, who comes forward holding an ancient grimoire covered in what Kady hopes is leather. She opens it gently, and Kady looks down. Intricate diagrams and bone breaking finger movements. She scans the pages and-

 

“Is this what I think it is?”

 

Julia nods, and quickly grins.

 

“I mean if you think that it’s a spell to trap a god and drain it of its power. And I thought who better than our friend Reynard?”

 

Kady mirrors her grin wolfishly.

 

“We still need to get it to work, but it looks legit. I’m sure that between the three of us we can manage. And look Kady,” Julia continues, “Come back to Brakebills with us. I don’t know why Reynard has left you alone for as long as he has, but I need you to be safe until we trap and drain him. Fuck Fogg and fuck his stupid expulsion. We’ve got bigger things to worry about.”

 

Kady frowns.

 

“Bigger things than an escaped trickster god who’s slowly killing and raping the entire hedge witch community?”

 

Julia blinks.

 

“I didn’t actually know that he was…” she trails off, looking haunted, “I mean it’s stupid but I wasn’t thinking about what he’d do once he got out. I guess I just thought it’d be over.”

 

“You’re right, it was stupid. But that’s Brakebills isn’t it? It doesn’t care about anything outside it’s wards. We could all died and so long as none of the classically trained dickbags get hurt nobody gives a damn.”

 

Alice leans forward: “Look, this spell is killing two birds with one stone: we stop Reynard and we get enough juice to power up our spell. And I agree with you: Brakebills is elitist bullshit. But once all this is over? We can change that. We just need to survive first.”

 

Sure they would. She’ll believe that when she sees it. But Alice looks determined, and Julia is nodding alongside her, and Kady has to shove down a warmth in her chest. They’ll probably be killed by Reynard doing this stupid spell anyway.

 

“What are we wasting time for then?” she asks, standing up and grabbing the sandwich. She takes a large bite, and urgh it’s fucking good.  

 

“Brakebills is on lockdown at the moment, no portals in or out of the wards. We either have to physically walk there or…” Alice trails off.

 

“What?” Kady demands.

 

“We Travel in,” says Julia quietly. Alice grabs her phone and sends off a text.

 

Penny appears, and it’s like a knife in the chest.

 

“Look, is this important?” he asks irritably, “I was kind of in the middle of something, and I want to get back to El. They are about to do some weird ass ritual and I don’t want to leave him alone.”

 

He turns.

 

“Kady,” he says.

 

“Penny,” she replies roughly.

 

“She’s coming back to Brakebills with us,” Julia is explaining in the background, but Kady can’t hear her properly. She’s staring at Penny who looks… honestly who looks wrecked. He takes a step toward her, and then stops. He looks…he doesn’t look angry, she could deal with that, he looks hurt. Betrayed.

 

Kady takes a deep breath. And looking him straight in the eyes, she drops her shields.


	10. Jane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jane imparts information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of suicide and suicidal thoughts

Jane blinks. She’s awake. She sits up and looks around. A relatively large room, cosy with a large shelving unit full of bottles of alcohol. Ah, Brakebills. Jane squints looking at the architectural bones of the room. The Physical Cottage.

 

Ah. There must be a new monarch. She doesn’t think that Madison had ever set foot in Brakebills, and in any case she was more of a Naturalist than anything. She concentrates slightly. There’s a distinctly masculine feel to the dreamscape.

 

She stands up and starts to walk around. It’s been at least twenty-five monarchs since she last had a Physical kid, and she’s curious to see what’s changed. No one is on the ground floor, and she starts to make her way up the stairs.

 

“Hello?” she calls.

 

Jane peeks into the different rooms as she passes them. Some of them are plain: white walls and a stark, utilitarian bed. Janes supposes that those are the ones that the High King hasn’t seen personally or doesn’t remember well. In contrast, some of the rooms are recreated in perfect detail. Jane winces slightly as she peers into one with Fillory posters plastered on the wall.

 

She still hasn’t found anyone else.

 

“Please come out,” she says, “We only have a short amount of time, and there are things that I have to tell you.”

 

Nothing. Jane sighs. She does not have time for this: the ritual only lasts so long. She can’t blame him though. She remembers her first few years vividly, alone and with no one to guide her. Triumph had sustained her for a while, but then as the reality of her situation had sunk in she had become more and more depressed.

 

She pauses. She quietly walks down the stairs and-aha! There, a small door. She opens it revealing a small closet, and the curled-up form of the new High King.

 

“Hello,” she says.

 

The boy looks up at her and something that resembles a whimper escapes. He looks briefly furious at himself and uncurls as much as he can in the cramped space.

 

Janes heart goes out to him. They do get younger every year. She swings the door wide open and crouches down.

 

“Come on darling,” she says gently, “you’re safe for now. No one can harm you.”

 

He looks unconvinced.

 

“Listen,” he says quietly, “I don’t know who you are, and I am pretty sure that I’m dreaming. I have been having a really shit time recently, so if you wouldn’t mind going away so I can spend some time on my own or if you could transform into Margo or Q or even Penny then I would appreciate it.”

 

“Look, I’m not going to make you get out of there but I’m not going away. I do need to talk to you, and the sooner you accept that the better. I promise that I’m real- “she pauses “-or as real as I can be under the circumstances, and I’m here to help. I was the first High Queen of Fillory.”

 

She raises her wrists and shows him her bracelets.

 

“My name is Jane Chatwin,” she continues, and then pauses meaningfully.

 

“Eliot Waugh,” comes the reply a moment later, with a weak smile that would be charming if he wasn’t so clearly miserable.

 

“Eliot,” she repeats gently. She’s found it’s always good to use their names whenever possible. Hardly anyone uses the monarch’s name in Fillory: the average Fillorian is in awe of the High Queen, and only sees the position and not the person. Those in power who have the most interaction with the Chosen also only tend to see the position, or more precisely the power that comes with controlling it.

 

“Now Eliot, I’m going to tell you some things. And you aren’t going to like hearing them. But you’re going to have to listen anyway because they’re important. Do you understand?”

 

A look of profound unhappiness crosses his face.

 

“I can’t just have five minutes to myself? Five minutes when I’m actually able to think for myself without worrying about hallucinating, or accidentally causing something to break and getting dosed with my,” his lip curls, “medicine?”

 

 “No you can’t.” Jane says bluntly. Evidentially gentleness isn’t getting them anywhere.

 

“In approximately ten minutes or so, you’re going to start experiencing pain, potentially debilitating, and fatigue. Can you remember where you were before you arrived here?”

 

A tired shrug.

 

“In the castle, I think? It’s all blurry honestly. Most things are these days. And not in the fun way.”

 

“That’s fine. It takes practice for people to bring short term memories into their mindscape. That’s where you are Eliot, your mindscape. It’s a defence mechanism: your mind conjuring up somewhere safe for you. Well,” Jane grins mischievously, “A mixture of your mind’s natural psychic defences and a smidgeon of magic that I may have interwoven into the crown. I left an imprint of myself anchored to it so that I could meet and guide the new monarchs, so that they wouldn’t be alone and confused like Mart-. Like I was. I spent at least two years on the spell as well: something very much like it was my thesis project at Brakebills.”

 

“You went to Brakebills?” Eliot asks.

 

“Well, not that officially I have to admit. One of my elder brothers, Rupert had a…friend let’s say who attended, and I would tag along with him whenever he visited. I would go through the books in the library while he was occupied. After my other brother was Chosen, Rupert, Lance and I would spend hours there researching.”

 

Jane sighs. “I do wish that I knew what happened to Rupert after. He was devastated when Martin disappeared, and I shudder to think how he took it when I left too. We were all he had left you see: everything else was taken by the war one way or another.”

 

Eliot shakes his head incredulously.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, “Your name might have just been a coincidence. But Jane Chatwin? With two brothers called Martin and Rupert? I might not be as in to those Fillory books as Q or Margo, but I’m not stupid. You want me to believe that you’re _that_ Jane Chatwin?”

 

“And whyever not? It’s not like you can dispute that Fillory is real,” Jane retorts.

 

Eliot gives a bitter smile.

 

“I’m personally still holding out for a tragically detailed delusion after a massive overdose,” he says.

 

“No such luck,” Jane says, “And if I were you, I wouldn’t try anything like that if you ever intend on doing more than being drugged through your days. The Council tend to frown upon it, and it’s not like it does much good.”

 

Jane raises a hand when Eliot frowns and looks like he might ask more questions.

 

“I’m sorry but we have no time to get into that digression. We only have a few minutes left, and I have yet to prepare you.”

 

At the word ‘prepare’ Eliot flinches back slightly, and Jane curses her poor word choice.

 

“Not like that,” she hurries to add, “I just need to give you some information. This is going to be hard for you to hold on to when you wake up, but I need you to try and remember. Although you can’t remember it, this morning you would have been brought to the twin gods’ temple. It’s the Spring Solstice you see. They’re getting all the pomp and pageantry out of the way at the moment, but in a minute or so the meat of the ritual will begin. There’s no easy way to say this Eliot: they’re going to drain quite a bit of your magic and feed it to the Wellspring.”

 

Eliot turns pale and jane gently extends her senses to check on the progress of the ritual. She starts to speak more quickly:

 

“I know that you can feel it now, a slight tugging on your essence. It’s going to get worse, there’s no point in sugar coating it. With each successive ritual you’ll become more and more bound to Fillory, which will make the drain more efficient. I’m sorry to say it, but eventually you’ll get used to it. Once you know what’s happening: Eliot if you’re powerful and determined enough, and I feel that you are, you can make sure that you’re ready for the ritual. In my lifetime I was able to build enough shields around my magic that I could hide a small amount of it and protect it from being drained so that _use_ it to create these sanctuaries. In the end,” Jane swallows, “In the end I was good enough at controlling the amount of magic drained out of me that I was able to work around the bindings that prevented me from working against Fillory.”

 

“Did you,” Eliot gasps asthmatically, “Did you escape?”

 

Jane gives a sad laugh.

 

“In a way yes,” she replies, “I interfered with the ritual so that instead of only taking a portion of my magic it took all of it at once and I died.”

 

Eliot is curled in on himself again, fighting against the pain and the sense of wrongness.

 

“Most Chosen don’t manage that much. They just get weaker and weaker until eventually their magic doesn’t replenish themselves fast enough, or their bond to Fillory gets so strong that the land accidentally steals all their magic. I was too strong and too stubborn, as I suspect that you are, that it wasn’t an option for me, and I managed to find the only way out that I could.”

 

Eliot isn’t listening to her anymore, in too much pain to even breath properly.

 

“What the fuck is this shit?” an unfamiliar voice exclaims behind her.

 

Jane turns around, already flickering slightly as the magic needed to sustain her form is sucked into the ritual. There is a young man standing behind her, looking horrified. He glares at her, and then rushes forward to kneel at Eliot’s side.

 

“Eliot,” he says urgently, “El!”

 

“You must be the infamous hallucination,” Jane says, “Now, are you Margo, Q, or Penny.”

 

“Penny,” he says gruffly, “Now tell me what the fuck is wrong with him and what I can do to stop it.”

 

“You must be a Traveller,” Jane muses, her voice getting fainter, “To be able to be here. You’re not the first like this that my brother has sent. It’s good,” she smiles, “That Eliot has such dedicated friends.”

 

She’s faded to nothing now, nothing left but a whisper of her voice.

 

“Tell Martin that I said hello. And that I love him.”


	11. Alice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alice struggles with a spell.

A twist. Third popper. Fourteenth popper, warped slightly. Eleventh popper, transition into an Incorporate Bond spell. Pause: transition into Koyosegi’s ward. Deep breath. Fingers twisting painfully into the Paralysis spell.

 

Fuck.

 

The magic she has been building explodes outward, contained only by Martin’s elegant hand movement and the shimmering wards that he had thought to put in place before their training session.

 

Alice groans, and drops her stance.

 

“Now class,” Martin say genially, “Do you see where Ms Quinn went wrong there?”

 

Quentin shakes his head, eyes down. Their relationship hasn’t really recovered from Brakebills South, and Alice feels a pang of loss. Everything has been so hectic ever since _Eliot_ that she and Q never really got around to talking. Now, months later she feels like it’s too late, like she’s been trapped in a fucking limbo of emotions and relationships that she doesn’t have time for. Not when she’s trying to steal from a god, break an ancient and unknown binding spell, _and_ learn battle magic at the same time.

 

Julia is watching her hand movements intently, and Kady is sat back studying her nails nonchalantly. No doubt Kady’s been able to do most of the battle magic they’re learning for years.

 

Margo isn’t here, probably off blowing things up. Annoyingly she’s already mastered the paralysis spell having taken to battle magic alarmingly well and often blows off Battle Magic 101 to make things explode with Todd who doesn’t seem to mind being her punching bag: Alice isn’t sure whether that’s a literal or metaphorical description as Margo’s Healing spells have also become much better recently. Alice hasn’t dared point out who Todd superficially resembles, but she knows that she isn’t the only one to have noticed. Honestly these days it doesn’t take long for Margo to blow up at any of them: the only person she has any patience for is Penny, ambushing him whenever she sees him and demanding detailed reports on whatever he’s seen.

 

Penny though… he refuses to talk to anyone about Fillory and Eliot apart from Martin and Dean Fogg. To anyone else asking about Eliot, he just gives a dead eyes stare. Reassures them that he isn’t dead yet. That doesn’t stop Margo from pushing.

 

In fact, Alice hasn’t seen Penny in days. Whenever he’s mentally on Earth he’s either being called on to act as transport as the only person able to currently exit the wards, tiredly shovelling down food under Kady’s steely eye, or being interrogated by Martin. Sometimes though, Alice finds notes in the library in a surprisingly neat hands, details and observations about the Circumstances in Fillory, careful calculations so that they have the best chance of using their magic in a foreign dimension.

 

Julia always looks sad and vaguely disapproving when she sees them and immediately marches off…somewhere.

 

(Alice will never admit this, but she’s walked in on them once. Three bodies piled together on the couch in the Cottage, Penny pinned down by Julia and Kady slumped over both of them, as if the weight of their bodies will make him stop and rest for once)

 

“Well since no one is answering, I suppose it falls upon me to spoon fee you the answers. Ms Quinn, why did you think that Koyosegi’s ward was the right spell to perform before attempting the Paralysis spell?”

 

Alice blinks tiredly.

 

“Koyosegi’s is protective,” she replies slowly, “It makes sense to cast it beforehand: if the paralysis spell doesn’t work then it’s another layer of protection. The paralysis spell takes a long time to cast because some of us,” and she’s definitely not bitter, “don’t have an extra finger on each hand.”

 

Martin raises an eyebrow.

 

“With an extra fifty years or so of intense study, I have no doubt that you too could gain an extra finger or two,” he replies mildly, “Indeed I have no doubt that you are talented enough to give yourself an additional limb. However, until that happy day I’m afraid that you’ll have to made do you ten fingers as magicians have been doing for hundreds if not thousands of years before you.”

 

“No,” he continues striding forward, “The reason that you’re not succeeding is that you don’t have enough _audacity_. When I created this spell to immobilise gods themselves, do you think that I was worrying about back-ups, and contingency plans in case it failed? No. I bit my whole self into it, I threw myself into the casting. You can’t have anything else taking your attention, you can’t be planning two steps ahead while casting. You have to be in the moment. Only once you’ve felt and used your emotions can you begin to take them and hone them into a weapon. Once you get past that initial mental block you’ll find that you can fall into the right mindset more easily, and eventually it won’t take long to cast at all.” A pause. “And of course, the extra fingers don’t hurt.”

 

Alice wants to punch him in his smarmy face. Weeks of this condescending bullshit have taken their toll, especially since it seems that their teacher doesn’t especially want to be there himself.

 

She whirls around: “Aren’t you going to say anything!” she shrieks at her friends.

 

Kady snorts.

 

“No. He’s right,” she says, “You do think too much. All of you do.”

 

She twists her fingers in the opening position of the spell, and Alice can feel something shiver inside her…

 

“Oh very good Kady,” Martin says approvingly, “A bit more practise and you’ll have a very credible spell.”

 

Alice wants to scream. She knows that Kady has the most experience in Battle Magic out of all the Physical Kids, and that she’s paid heavily for that ability, but annoyance isn’t rational. Alice Quinn has been the top of the class since before she could walk! She and Charlie used to whisper spells together after school, making her toys dance around the room. Her parents used to show them off at parties for fuck’s sake and she’s never given anything less than a flawless performance.   

 

Something rises in her, hurt and anger, and helplessness and she lashes out, hand movements jerky with rage.

 

Martin’s head jerks back, and a line of blood appears down his cheek.

 

Alice stops, panting. Shit shit shit shit. She’s never lost control like this before.

 

Martin takes a pristine handkerchief out of his pocket, and slowly wipes his face clean of blood.

 

He nods once.

 

“Well, it’s a step in the right direction at least,” he says.

 

“Class dismissed. I suspect that we’re about to be interrupted in any case.”

 

“No I think that they should stay for this,” Penny says from where he’s appeared unnoticed in the corner of the room. “In fact,” he disappears reappearing a moment later with a sweaty Margo, “I think that we should all be here for this.”

 

“What the fuck!” Margo says, making a sharp motion with her hand. Penny backs up slightly, hands up: “Hey, just trying to get some straight answers form Dumbledore here. I figured you’d want to be present for them.”

 

Margo huffs.

 

“Fine,” she says striding over to Quentin. She raises an imperious eyebrow, and when he fails to move, practically shoves him off his chair before claiming it herself. Quentin doesn’t protest and Julia, rolling her eyes, slides off her own chair and goes to sit on the floor next to him. Alice steals Julia’s chair: this looks interesting.

 

“Ah, story time at the preschool I take it?” Martin says. “And what, Mr Adiyodi is to be the subject of today’s fairytale?”

 

Penny looks him straight in the eyes.

 

“Your sister,” he says, “Jane Chatwin. Apparently first High Queen of Fillory.”

 

Quentin makes a small sound of excitement. Alice ignores it.

 

Martin looks disconcerted for the first time. Alice is surprised how vulnerable he looks, even without the smears of drying blood decorating his forehead.

 

“Why,” Martin swallows heavily, “Why would we need to talk about Ja- about my sister? I assure you that she’s been dead longer than you’ve been alive.”

 

Penny holds up a hand.

 

“About this tall? Redhead, mid-thirties. Has the same matching jewellery as you and Eliot-”

 

Martin is twisting his wrists in his hands, and Alice notices the gold bracelets for the first time: were those always there?

 

“-annoyingly enigmatic?” Penny finishes.

 

“I take it that you’ve been brushing up on your ancient Fillorian history,” Martin says heavily.

 

“Ancient history? No man, I got it straight from the source. Jane says hi by the way.”

 

Martin’s lips are tightly clenched. His wrists are bleeding where the bracelets are being pulled at with more and more force.

 

"She also told me to say that she loves you," Penny adds casually as if every word isn't another piece of ammunition used to chip away at the older man's shields.

 

“Impossible,” Martin says, “she’s dead. I know that for a fact. Not even clever Jane could survive-“

 

He stops talking. Stares at his hands as if they belong to someone else. Then he turns and deliberately leaves the room, shutting the door behind him delicately.

 

“Dude, you totally scared off our teacher,” Quentin says.

 

“Yeah, I didn’t think that he was actually going to man up and tell us anything useful,” Penny snorts. He turns to the others.

 

Alice almost gasps. His eyes… they’re dull and bleak, like he’s lost all hope in the world. Like someone’s shattered his careful douchebaggery dragged him into caring against his will.

 

“Right,” he says, serious, “No more playing around. We need to talk about Eliot. And then we need to get him out of that hellhole as quickly as possible.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why or how, but Penny just keeps popping up at the end of chapters? Penny, why are you doing this, stop taking over other people's chapters it's rude.


	12. Josh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josh bakes a cake

“What the hell are you guys doing!”

 

Josh is-well angry is an understatement really: he’s pissed, he’s furious, he’s, he’s. Shit. He can’t even remember any more adjectives for angry. Maybe all the drugs have fried his brain like his dad told him they would.

 

But still! He likes to think that he’s a pretty laid-back guy. Always the centre of the party, handing out ahem mood enhancers, making sure that everyone has a good time. That’s his motto, right? Hakuna matata, no worries.

 

Only idiots exist.

 

“Look Todd,” he continues, “You’re a good guy. I like you. And you’re hilarious when you’re high. But what you’ve done? It’s stupid. It’s suicidal!”

 

Josh gestures towards the remains of his private lab. His usually neat bottles are a mess: Todd’s really fucked up his system and it’s going to take him hours to get everything back into place. The worst thing though… the worst thing is that there’s a steaming bowl in the middle of the table, one of his nice silver ones that he uses when he’s working with a fiddly potion so that the container doesn’t affect the active components. That bowl was expensive man.

 

And Todd has just dumped a load of his carefully made brews-which are also super expensive by the way-into them haphazardly taking nothing like proportions or potential explosions into account. He’s lucky that he hadn’t accidentally made poisonous gas or something.

 

And Josh still hasn’t got to the worst bit.

 

The worst bit is that when he had carelessly entered his lab a few minutes ago, ready to get some prime baking time in, Todd had had the bowl raised to his face ready to take a drink out of it. Which is wrong on so many levels! Hasn’t Todd heard of toxicity tests? Trial runs? How has this kid lived this long?

 

Yes, he realises the irony of what he’s saying. There should really be more readily available information about the dangers of lycanthropy: who knew that it could be sexually transmitted?

 

Todd looks… he looks apologetic which is a nice first step, but now he’s raising the bowl to his mouth again and what the fuck dude?

 

Josh leaps forward (really impressively he thinks) and knocks the bowl from Todd’s hands. It clatters to the floor and where the liquid touches the wood smokes starts to rise.

 

“What the fuck dude,” Josh says blankly.

“Er, shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Todd replies, stumbling back slightly to avoid the liquid burning a hole in his shoe, “I mean why have you got the ingredients for acid lying around here?”

 

Josh narrows his eyes at the little bastard but ignores him in favour of performing a quick spell. The liquid rises into the air, and he hastily finds a glass jar to store it in until he can dispose of it properly.

 

“What were you even trying to do,” he asks despairingly.

 

“I’m really sorry man,” Todd says, “I was just trying to make a potion.”

 

Josh looks at the mess of his laboratory.

 

“Yeah,” he replies, “I think I got that!”

 

Todd looks worse, and Josh suddenly feels like he kicked cancer puppy or something.

 

“Hey dude,” he says, “It’s fine really- “it’s not “but maybe if you tell me what you were trying to do, I could help you out?” _of here before you can do any more damage_ , he finishes silently.

 

Todd seems to slump.

 

“I was just trying to help,” he says. “I mean Margo’s been super stressed recently because of Eliot being in an alternate dimension and being tortured, and I think it’s not just the worry, you know? I think it’s the fact that she can’t even get in contact with him. Like I know that he’s probably got some bad shit being done to him, but it’s even worse because we have no information? And your mind naturally jumps to the worst-case scenario?”

 

Josh hums an affirmative noise: he has no idea what this kid’s on about. Has he missed some drama? He figured that the recent lock down was just the school’s latest ploy to stop students sneaking off campus and actually study for finals: business has been booming lately with students bored out of their minds.

 

“And I thought I could find something to just help her calm down. You know, nothing crazy. But I knocked and you weren’t there, and I don’t have a lot of time because I’m supposed to be meeting Margo in an hour, so I thought if I just tipped some of the calming things into a bowl, I could make a rough potion up for her.”

 

Wow. This kid is dumber than he thought.

 

“Ok, several things going on in that sentence,” says Josh, “One, if Margo wants relaxing drugs, I’m pretty sure Margo can get her own relaxing drugs. Two, poppy? Angel’s trumpet? Snowdrops? Were you trying to kill her?”

 

Todd bristles.

 

“Hey poppy’s got opium in it!” he protests, “I know that.”

 

“I mean yeah,” says Josh, “Apart from you used my poppy concentrate which has enough opioids in it to kill a small elephant. _And_ you used all my nice vanilla!”

 

“I wanted it to taste nice? And snowdrops are always so cheerful! Like who doesn’t feel better after seeing a snowdrop after winter? And anything called angel-something has to be good for you, right?”

 

Josh groans.

 

“Ok Todd, tell you what. I’ve got a couple of things that might help Margo out. Like, I could combine my recipe for my DimensiON cake, add a bit of Somnacin, mix with my special GPYes! cake.”

 

Todd looks blank.

 

“You have out of body travel experience when you have it,” Josh explains, “I though the name was-never mind the name. Inception jokes are ruined on you,” he mutters under his breath.

 

“I’ll bake them in a brownie for you: classic. Although maybe not as tasty as usually as _someone_ used all my vanilla. It should let you travel to Eliot’s dreams even if he is in a different dimension or whatever. Hell, I’ll bake you a whole batch. In return you never step foot in this room again. Deal?”

 

Todd bounces-literally bounces.

 

“Ohmygod thank you Josh!” he says, “That sounds perfect. Like Penny in a cake! In fact,” he hesitates, “could you maybe make enough for like six, seven people?”

 

Josh can feel a headache coming on. He looks longingly at his bong in the corner.

 

“Yes fine whatever. I’ll get it to you before the end of the day. Now get out!”

 

Todd leaves thank Bacchus, and Josh smokes almost an entire ounce of weed, he’s so frazzled, before getting on to making the promised brownies. Really Todd, did you ever stop to think that maybe you only needed a small amount of things with the label ‘concentrate’ on them? The brownies wipe him out of a lot of his stock-what’s left of it anyway. It’s fine, he’s going to take a break for a bit, do some self-care: it’s not like he can replenish anything while the lockdown is still in effect anyway. And he maybe does feel a bit bad for Margo, who’s been rough recently.

 

He regrets his kinder impulse later that evening when he delivers the brownies to the Physical Kids’ Cottage and find an alarming amount of people staring at him as he enters.

 

“What?” he says defensively. Has he got something on his face?

 

“This will really let us visit El’s dream? I mean speak to him properly?” Shaggy hair asks.

 

“I mean I haven’t tested this particular combination yet, but in theory yeah,” says Josh.

 

“I don’t know if this is a good idea Q,” Alice Quinn-oh my god Alice Quinn!-says, “I mean we still aren’t ready. We could be tipping Ember and Umber off.”

 

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I agree with Alice,” says scarily-hot-East-Asian dude.

 

Margo stands.

 

“Shut up Penny,” she growls, “El’s my best friend and I haven’t been able to be there for him. It’s easy for you to say: you’re the only one who’s been able to see him regularly.”

 

Penny snorts. “Yeah, but it’s not like I can tell him I’m real! I just have to stand there uselessly and _gather information_.”

 

Scary chick with curly hair-and what is it with the amount of scary and/or hot people in this group?- places her hand over Penny’s.

 

“I know it’s been hard for you,” she says, “And we appreciate it Penny, you know we do. And if any of us,” she glares around the room and Josh attempts to sink into the wall, “could help share your burden we would in a heartbeat.”

 

Penny scowls.

 

“Fine,” he says, “But we only take them just before we make our move. Don’t give them too much time to prepare.”

 

“Actually,” Josh says, “The best time to eat them before they go stale would be-“ he trails off. “Never mind,” he says.

 

“We’ve nearly finished the spell,” Alice says, “A couple more days.”

 

Q-is that actually his name? -nods.

 

“So we’re agreed,” he says, staring at Margo. “We wait for Julia and the others to do the draining spell, and then we eat the brownies. And then we rescue El.”

 

Yeah ok this has got crazy intense. Josh places his plate of baked goods on the table and edges his way out before they start an orgy or something. Physical Kids man. They throw the best parties but have the worst fuck ups.

 

Behind him the room explodes into noise as Margo decidedly doesn’t appreciate Q ordering her around. But hey, not his problem.

He hopes they’re ok though. Eliot’s a cool dude. But Hakuna Matata. Can’t concentrate on your life philosophy if you’re caught up in someone else’s shit.

 

So he leaves. Josh has another ounce of the good stuff waiting for him back in his room and it’s calling his name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also wrote a kind of crack fit as a palate cleanser for all the angst I'm writing if anyone's interested?https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711939   
> Kind of self-indulgently absurd but eh.
> 
> Anyway thanks to everyone who's reading, reviewing (looking at you Vriah and Coldfiredragon!) and leaving Kudos, I really appreciate it!


	13. Iris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iris learns something new.

“Hey bros! You’re not going to greet your favourite little sister?”

 

Iris’ voice echoes through the cavernous rooms that Ember and Umber have chosen to make their abode. It’s very them she supposes. The space is large and echoing, and she can clearly tell which of her brothers has claimed each side: on the left there is scattered bones from old meals, beautiful golden trinkets carelessly left in easily trippable places, and a pervasive smell of stale beer. There is a painfully straight line denoting the boundary between the left and the right sides: it’s made out of gold and literally embedded into the marble floor. The right side is comically different: there is a scent of freshly mown grass pervading the air (it makes her sneeze) and everything on that side is arranged at perfect right angles. Iris wonders if Umber had heard of OCD and whether he would be interested in maybe seeking professional help. If this is what the communal area looks like, where both brothers presumable have the means and opportunity to ‘accidentally’ interfere with each other’s halves, she shudders to think about what their private quarters resemble.

 

Eh, none of her business though. Although the fact that her neither of her brothers have any talent in interior design is pretty painful: they seem to think the height of fashion is either sticking gilding on everything (soooo Baroque) or having all their furnishings in various shades of grey, cream, and white (did Umber divinely inspire the founders of IKEA?)

 

“Iris!” comes a loud bellow from behind her, and she is plucked off her feet and spun around boisterously.

 

“Put me down,” she laughs leaning back to avoid Ember’s horns. He holds on tightly: Iris knows that he’d never let her fall, even if it wouldn’t really hard her in the long run. Her big brothers are annoying assholes a lot of the time, but she loves them and knows that none of them would ever do anything to hurt each other. Maim slightly maybe, but not permanent hurt.

 

“It is good to see you, Sister,” says Umber. He’s standing off to the side with a small smile on his lips. Iris squeals in delight and scrambles out of Ember’s embrace to go and hug her other brother. He’s stiff as always, but slowly relaxes into her.

 

“It’s been too long,” he says into her hair.

 

“It has,” she agrees, “Almost five hundred years I believe. You know how it is though. None of our cousins seem to realise that instant messaging is a thing nowadays no matter how many hints I drop. They always want to communicate the old-fashioned way!”

 

“How inconsiderate,” Ember chuckles, “No thought to our poor sister, run off her feet.”

 

Iris swats the back of his head, “Hey, I can handle the workload! It’s just annoying that those old stodges can’t seem to move with the times. The ideas that I’ve had guys! The worlds that I want to create… Only I don’t have any time because stupid Bacchus thinks that it’s funny to send Athena 70 dick pics.”

Umber frowns. “I’ll have to talk to him,” he says, “I’m not sure that I approve of my baby sister carrying around so many ‘dick pics’,”

 

“Especially those of a sub-par specimen like Bacchus,” Ember agrees. He sees Umber rolling his eyes, “You know exactly what I mean! All that partying he does is nothing more than a transparent attempt to cover up the fact he has a tiny co- “

 

“Ember! You shouldn’t talk about our youngest brother like that.” Umber pauses, and a hint of mischief enters her face, “After all,” he continues, “it’s not his fault that he isn’t as well-endowed as we are.”

 

“Ew guys you’re so gross,” Iris whines as they both burst out laughing. Boys, it doesn’t matter if they’re five or five thousand she’ll never understand them.

 

“Anyway,” she says loudly to cut them off, “I’ve come with good news! Your shift is over. You can come home now.”

 

They stop laughing. A sombre mood descends.

 

“Guys?” Iris says, confused, “You heard what I said, right? That you can leave this pitifully underdeveloped world behind and come home? Your tour of duty is over I thought that you’d be celebrating.”

 

“Mother’s forgiven us then?” Umber asks quietly. At his side, Ember is uncharacteristically silent.

 

Iris’ heart breaks.

 

“Of course she has,” she says gently, “I know that she overreacted. We all do. But you have to admit Ember, seducing all of mother’s followers was a colossally bad idea. And Umber: going after them afterwards and killing them all to cover up the crime was an even worse idea,”

 

“It just seemed neater,” Umber mutters.

 

Iris scowls. “Well it wasn’t! Do you know how long it took mother to recover her power? Bacchus actually goes around telling people that he doesn’t know you, he’s so ashamed!”

 

“Why that little rat!” Ember exclaims.

 

Iris takes a deep calming breath. She thinks of rainbows: the interplay of the rain and the sun, droplets glistening in the sky…

 

“Look, none of this matters anymore. Pack your bags bros, it’s time to leave this shithole.”

 

Maybe her idiot brothers aren’t actually sorry, but so long as none of them ever bring up this incident in mother’s general vicinity then things will be just fine. It’s not like their parents are blameless either: she knows exactly what they did to the Babylonians.

 

“We can’t.”

 

Her brother’s blunt voice interrupts her fantasy of a proper family for the first time in centuries.

 

“Why not?” she fairly wails.

 

“I think that it’s better if we show you,” Umber says, “Although little sister… you have to realise that we thought we’d abandoned here to rot. We thought that we’d never be let out, forced to spend the rest of our days feeding the Wellspring to maintain the wards around Castle Blackspire. And we did our duty for fifty years. Fifty of the most miserable years of our existence…” he trails off.

 

“You have to understand!” Ember says picking up the narrative, “We weren’t living. We were existing. The constant drain on our power… it gets worse over the years, you know that? You haven’t questioned the fact that usually guard shifts only last a decade?”

 

“But there are two of you,” Iris says heart pounding, “You supported each other, took turns… oh sweet mother what have you done?”

 

“What we had to. Before it was too late.”

 

Her brothers exchange a long look, and then they place a hand each on her shoulders. The trio disappear and reappear in the familiar corridors of Castle Whitespire. It’s full of bustling people, but somehow none of them walk into the siblings.

 

“I believe that he should be in the throne room at this time of the day. Tick does like to keep him on a strict schedule.”

 

They turn and walk down the hallway in silence. Surely what they want to show her can’t be that bad? Just her big brothers being melodramatic as usual. _But you haven’t seen them in so long. People change._  

 

As she continues walking, an itchy feeling starts up between her shoulder blades. It gets stronger the closer to the throne room she walks and she frowns. Ok, that can’t be a coincidence.

 

Finally they squeeze past a farmer carrying a two-headed chicken, and the itching immediately stops, replaced with a faint sense of wrongness.

 

“What- “she starts to ask, but then she sees him. Sitting on the dais, he could be a statue he’s so still and pale, but there’s a faint tremor to his hands. The magic around him though… To Iris’ eyes he’s lit within by a bright golden light, much stronger than any human should be able to produce. Not as powerful as a god…but not that far off either. That’s not the strange bit though. Iris has seen god-touched humans before. If her brothers were just off fucking a human then she could just grab them and leave the mess for the next poor guard to clean up.

 

But the gold light-it’s leaking out through the human’s skin, pooling densely around his wrists, and sinking into the floor. The thing it most resembles is when a human magician is constantly spellcasting, only it looks like the magic is being actively dragged out of him.

 

“Are you,” she falters, “Are you draining that human?”

 

“We fortified him first!” Ember defends.

 

“You fortified…” Iris closes her eyes. “I don’t even want to know what you did to fortify him enough that the constant drain hasn’t killed him already. And I understand why you can’t leave now. Because if anyone saw that…that abomination that you’ve created. Why would you do this?”

 

“Humans,” Umber says quietly, “Are short-lived beasts whose only redeeming quality is that their worship confers the smallest amount of power. And nowadays the majority of them don’t even Believe anymore.”

 

“How could you say something like that,” Iris moans.

 

“By taking just one human and feeding it a fraction of our power, we can create a battery that will allow the Wellspring to thrive for at least a decade. More if the human is strong and has bonded well as this one has. A low, constant power drain improves their bond with the Land, and regular large drains help keep the Wellspring healthy and offsets the initial magic we had to invest in it to ensure that it would survive long enough to be worth it. The best thing, sister, is that the humans are a renewable resource. Completely green. One human as a battery and thousands of worshippers as a low-grade charging station of worship. The whole set-up practically runs itself.”

 

Umber’s eyes are gleaming and fanatical. What had Fillory done to them? Or were they always like this and she had just never noticed?

 

“You have to swear sister,” Ember growls at her, “Swear that you won’t tell mother. Or the other Old Gods. You said it yourself: they don’t like change.”

 

“I was talking about instant messaging not _this_ ,” Iris says.

 

“The principle’s the same. You know that they aren’t ready for this level of innovation. You know that they would kill us for this. In fact-”

 

Ember leans forward, and for the first time in her life Iris is afraid of her brother

 

“-you know as well as we do that this was meant to be a death sentence. They wanted us to rot here.”

 

Iris shakes her head weakly.

 

“No…Mother would never… She _loves_ us.”

 

“Promise me Iris. Promise us you won’t tell her or any of the others.”

 

“I, I…” she can’t think. She can’t breathe.

 

“ _Promise us_.”

 

“I promise,” she says miserably. She doesn’t want her brothers dead.

 

There’s a surge in magic, and Iris gasps as she feels a small brand etch itself onto the base of her thumb.

 

“You _bound_ me?”

 

“I’m sorry Iris. We can’t be too careful.”

 

Iris can feel hot angry tears well up.

 

“How many of them,” she demands, “How many of your little batteries have you used to keep the Wellspring fed?”

 

“Hundreds,” Umber replies calmly. “I had to get the spells right, and the rituals are very much trial-and-error as all great innovations are. In this current incarnation?”

 

He gestures toward the throne.

 

“Twelve. Despite a few mishaps at the beginning it’s been smooth sailing.”

 

Iris feels sick.

 

“I won’t tell mother,” she spits at them, “But I’m not helping you either. Both of you? You’re dead to me.”

 

And before they can react, she disappears. Fuck them. Fuck them both. She’s going to go and find Bacchus: she needs a drink.


	14. Julia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia eats pancakes.

It’s cold. Julia curls into herself, and feels the warm bodies surrounding her shift.

 

“Hey,” Kady whispers, “Are you ok?”

 

Julia blinks up at her. Kady. Whose life she saved and ruined in approximately the same 30 seconds. Kady who’s passionate and amazingly talented and has surprising hidden depths (ballet? Music history?) and who’s never afraid to call her out on her bullshit. Kady who’s looking down at her with a carefully guarded tenderness in her eyes.

 

“I’m fine,” she whispers back, “I just don’t want to wake Penny.”

 

Both girls hold their breathes. Penny is sound asleep for the first time in days. He’s been existing on short naps and enough caffeine to kill twenty grad students, no matter how much Julia pleads and Kady orders. The idiot seems to think that astral projecting is some sort of substitute for rest, and has a self-sacrificing streak that Julia is determined to break him of. It doesn’t help that he is literally the only one who can leave the grounds at the moment, physically or astrally. All the other Travellers have gone dark, and whenever she’s ambushed Dean Fogg to ask about them he’s pointedly changed the subject.

 

Penny makes a small snuffling sound. There’s drool pooling on his pillow. It’s gross, but also pretty endearing.

 

“Come on,” she says to Kady, “It’s early. We need to get some more sleep.”

 

Today of all days they need to be well rested.

 

Kady nods at her in acknowledgment and then tentatively reaches over, slowly enough that Julia can pull away if she wants to. She doesn’t want to. Instead she reaches back over Penny, and they cling to each other. Penny shifts at the additional pressure and makes a low grunt. Julia holds her breathe, letting out a silent sigh of relief when all he does is roll over. She looks over at Kady who’s desperately trying not to laugh, and Julia feels a giggle rise up in her throat.

 

She’s happy, she realises. Not just surviving. Not even content. She’s properly happy for the first time…since…

 

Kady grip tightens on her hand, and Julia looks up.

 

“Don’t,” Kady says. “Don’t let that bastard ruin this for you.”

 

“Oh my god,” Penny groans, “I never thought I’d say this but you two are fucking louder than Quentin fucking Clearwater. Julia, Kady you have worked hard on this fucking ritual and you are going to bleed that motherfucker dry today. I have faith in you, ok? You’re the most badass people I know, myself included. Now go the fuck back to sleep.”

 

So they do.

 

At a much more reasonable time, Julia is sitting in the Cottage, watching Kady make pancakes. Kady catches her watching, and with an atypical soft smile she flips the pancake. It soars into the air at an odd angle and Kady makes a hasty hand movement that brings it soaring back into the pan. She glances over at Julia.

 

“Can you pretend you didn’t see that?”

 

“I don’t know,” Julia replies, “I kind of like the fact you’re not perfect. Gives me a chance to catch up with you.”

 

Kady scowls.

 

“You know that you’re a prodigy Julia. What is it Josh calls you? The Hermione Granger of Brakebills?”

 

“What’s the matter?” Julia asks.

 

Kady turns away and moodily pokes at her pancake. It’s slowly turning black, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

 

“…it was a joke,” Julia says, “A shitty joke. You know that, right? I mean I think that you are pretty damn perfect, but I’m not jealous or resentful or whatever. Are,” Julia swallows sharply. “Are you? Resentful I mean. That I didn’t get you out of there fast enough.”

 

“No! Fuck, no.”

 

Kady dumps her pan, pancake and all, into the sink and makes her way over to Julia.

 

“I mean…look I don’t know what I mean. I just don’t want you to…Shit, ok Julia I am not perfect, ok? I am so far from perfect. I make shitty life decisions, and I can’t trust anyone after my mom…Look, my point is that I don’t want you to think that I’m better than I am because I’m _not_. I’ve just had a fucked-up childhood and learnt to meditate instead of, I don’t know, playing with barbies or whatever. I’m a screw-up Julia, and sooner or later you’re going to realise that.”

 

Julia clings to Kady.

 

“Fuck that,” she says fiercely, “Maybe you’re not the poster child for wellbeing, but none of us are, Kady. You’re my fucking best bitch, alright?”

 

She reaches into her pocket.

 

“This is…stupid but it was the only thing I could think of. Because we might die today, and I don’t even care this is super cheesy.”

 

She opens her palm, and she is holding a pair of necklaces.

 

“You want a proper childhood experience? Well this is what we did. Exchanged cheap friendship necklaces.”

 

Julia reaches up carefully and clasps the necklace around Kady’s neck, before putting her own on.

 

“I- “Kady’s mouth is twisted. Julia can’t tell whether it’s a smile or a grimace, whether she managed to show the other girl how much she means to her or whether she’s driven away one of the only things that have got her through the last few months relatively sane.

 

Kady makes a sharp gesture and the Julia’s necklace warms slightly.

 

“It’s a tracking spell,” Kady says, “Nothing intrusive, just enough that we’ll know that the other person is alive. My mom and I…” she trails off and looks down. She takes a shallow breath. “I’ll enchant something of Penny’s later.”

 

Julia puts an arm around Kady’s waist, tentative at first and then more confidently when there’s no protest.

 

“Do you want to tell me about her?” she asks, “Your mom?”

 

Kady shakes her head.

 

“No. Not now. Not when we have so much shit to get through. But…” she hesitates and looks up and into Julia’s eyes. “Maybe later. After we’ve defeated Ember and Umber.”

 

“Yeah,” says Julia softly, “Yeah we can do that.”

 

She should be preparing for the ritual. Instead she just sits there with Kady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was meant to be plot in this! But things got away from me??? Happy Valentine's Day everyone.


	15. Henry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry doesn't get baked goods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read Julia's chapter (or Josh's for that matter) go back and do so! I am being surprisingly productive this evening and have double posted.

Henry has never been a parent. He has never wanted to be. He is an educator first and foremost, and that has been more than enough for over twenty years.  He’s not going to lie and say that it’s been all sunshine and roses. He is, after all, Dean of a magical University and it is a well-known fact that magic comes from pain. That, and repressing one’s feelings. This has never formally been demonstrated, but once again after twenty fucking years of teaching magic, Henry is pretty damned sure that it’s true.

 

Henry’s never been a parent. But he imagines that the experience is not dissimilar to what he is feeling right now, watching his students try and trap a god that one of them accidentally summoned so that they can drain it in order to save another student from being used as a human battery to power a country previously only featured in a children’s fantasy novel.

 

He bets that Dumbledore never had to deal with this shit.

 

“When the fuck did my life get so complicated,” he mutters.

 

Next to him, Martin raises an elegant eyebrow and offers him a silver flask. Henry accepts it. Drinks. Splutters.

 

“I still don’t know how you can drink this shit,” he mutters.

 

“It’s doing the job, isn’t it?” Martin replies mildly, “And what’s it going to do, kill me? Give me liver cancer?” He snorts. “Would that I were that fortunate.”

 

Henry remains silent. Who is he to get in the middle of a man and his death wish?

 

In front of them, the ritual is properly getting underway. Julia, Alice and the hedge witch are sat in a circle, chanting ancient Babylonian. Penny was furious, but eventually gave in to the logic that were Reynard to break free then there’s no point in all of them dying pointless and unpleasant deaths. In any case, Henry is certain that he is stationed somewhere nearby, monitoring their thoughts and ready to Travel in at a moment’s notice to extract his friends.

 

“Who is Mr Adiyodi seeing exactly?” Henry asks idly.

 

Martin hums thoughtfully and raises his hands to his eyes.

 

“Well, if their intermingled auras can be trusted, I would say both Ms Quinn and Ms Wicker. A pity really: I thought that Kady had more sense than that.”

 

The lights are flickering, and papers are flying everywhere. Henry swears that he hears thunder.

 

“Those ancient Babylonians did know how to construct a proper ritual,” Martin remarks, “A pity that modern rituals don’t have the same sort of flair.”

 

Henry snorts. “Perhaps but at least the modern spell keeps my insurance premiums down. I shudder to think the amount of damage that the students would inflict on the school.”

 

A flash of lightening, and the fox god appears. The Kady is there immediately twisting her hands and paralysing him before he even realises that he’s been summoned. Julia and Alice continue chanting, moving on to the more difficult part of the spell.

 

“Well, that went better than expected,” says Martin. “I was half expecting them to summon an eldritch horror and plunge the world into a hundred years of darkness etc etc.”

 

A gold mist is being drawn out of the trapped god, and Alice carefully directs it toward the sword they have decided will be the best god-killing weapon, on the grounds that it can at least be used more than once.

 

Then the girls exchange a glance. Alice nods and steps back, and Kady presses a dagger into Julia’s hands. She takes a deep breathe, and advances into the circle toward the still-paralysed Reynard.

 

“Well Henry, it looks like I’m not the only one to get blood on your floors,” Martin remarks, sounding as if he were commenting on nothing more interesting than the weather.

 

Henry grinds his teeth. It had taken three days and a liberal amount of pixie dust to get the stains out of his office from Martin’s melodramatic demonstration, and that had only been blood from a god-touched individual. He shudders to think how hard it will be to get actual divine blood stains out. He’s going to owe Bigby so many favours. Still, he can’t deny Julia this.

 

“Well, it seems like your students have got everything under control,” Martin says, “I don’t see that we’ll be needed here any longer. Shall we?”

 

And he strides out of the room. Henry glances over. He has a terrible feeling that the moment he is no longer observing this entire ritual will go to shit, but honestly he also doesn’t want to leave Martin Chatwin unescorted. The man drank his entire stash of scotch a week ago, and what with the lockdown he hasn’t managed to replenish it yet. He doesn’t particularly want to lose any more of his alcohol: enchanting an ever-full flask is always an option but he always finds that magical alcohol never has the same…oomph…to it.

 

He doesn’t hurry after Martin, but his strides are perhaps slightly monger than usual. Surprisingly Martin is waiting for him just outside the door.

 

“Has Mr Adiyodi spoken to you about his experience in Mr Waugh’s mindscape yet?” he Martin asks, “More specifically, has he told you about my sister?”

 

“He mentioned that there appeared to be a representation of her, yes,” Henry replies carefully.

 

Martin starts to conjure a portal.

 

“Do come along Henry,” he says, stepping through it.

 

Henry sighs but follows. He emerges in the Cottage. It’s deserted, all its usual inhabitants either involved in preparing for the ritual or banished to other accommodation for the time being to avoid collateral damage from all battle magic being practised.

 

“What are we doing here?” he asks.

 

“I’m afraid that I’m about to do something rather ill-advised,” Martin replies, manfully ignoring Henry’s muttered “What a surprise.”

 

He strides over to kitchen table and glances thoughtfully at a plate of brownies.

 

“I found my sister’s thesis project. It was a clock if you can believe it: if one steps into it then they are able to converse with a version of her. Horribly limited of course: nothing more than a fifty-year-old recording. I have no doubt however that given more power and a another few years of self-study Jane was able to improve on it.”

 

He picks up the plate and starts to chew methodically.

 

“What are you doing?” Henry asks. He hasn’t seen anyone eat a plate of baked goods that quickly since the last staff party when they all got drunk and broke into the Grand Central Oyster Bar kitchen. He still couldn’t think about shellfish without feeling nauseous.

 

“Something unbelievably stupid. Something that I suspect the children won’t forgive me for. Do pass on my apologies, won’t you?”

 

“Something… why wouldn’t you be able to apologise yourself?” Henry demands.

 

It’s too late. The brownies are entirely gone, and Martin has fallen asleep. No matter how hard he shakes him, Henry can’t get him to wake up again.

 

“Well fuck,” he says.

 

He leaves the insane Englishman to his nap and goes to make sure his students haven’t destroyed civilisation in his absence. Much to his surprise Reynard is lying unstabbed on the floor.

 

The girls have been joined by the rest of the motley gang, Penny having evidentially fetched Margo and Quentin the moment he knew it was safe to do so, and they are huddled around in earnestly talking to …who the fuck is that?

 

Henry coughs. Quentin jumps, but he is the only one to do so.

 

“I don’t believe we’ve met?” Henry says pointedly to the stranger. She rises and extends her hand politely.

 

“Iris,” she says, “Messenger of the gods. A pleasure to meet you Dean Fogg.”

 

Henry can feel his eyebrows rising.

 

“And to what do we owe the pleasure?” he asks.

 

“Iris is here to help,” Quentin says.

 

“Iris can talk for herself,” the goddess replies, “But yes, I am here to help. And to stop you from making a terrible mistake. You see if you were to kill a god, any god,” she says pointedly, “then the Old Gods would turn off magic.”

 

“Turn off magic,” Henry repeats flatly.

 

“Honestly it was kind of a mistake to let humans use it in the first place,” Iris says, “But some of us think it’s funny watching you magicians running around, so we’ve left it alone for now. But if a magician killed a god. Well. It’s a matter of principle. There have to be consequences.”

 

Margo snorts. “So you dickheads can’t be killed,” she says, “Honey, there are things that I could do that would make you beg for death.”

 

“That’s my family you’re talking about, show some respect,” Iris says although she doesn’t seem unduly bothered, “But yes so long as you don’t outright kill anyone you should be fine. Even gods can be bound.”

 

“What do you get out of this?” Alice asks abruptly.

 

“Me?” Iris asks innocently. “Well, we girls have to stick together, right? Plus, I’m just here to pick up my brother.”

 

All eyes turn to Reynard.

 

“That dickhead’s your brother?” Penny asks flatly.

 

“Unfortunately,” Iris says, “But you can’t choose your family. Honestly he’s not even the worst- “she stops talking.

 

“Anyway,” she continues brightly after a minute, “I think we should be going now! Best of luck on your quest. And Julia?”

 

Iris makes her way over to where Julia, Penny, and Kady are huddled together. The other two immediately shove Julia behind them. Iris rolls her eyes.

 

“Stop being so tense guys, as I said just here to help.”

 

“Well, it’s not as if we’ve got a great track record on gods,” Penny retorts.

 

In one quick movement, Iris jabs Julia on the forehead, then backs away quickly holding her hands up in the universal sign of ‘ _we come in peace’_.

 

“For what it’s worth I hope that you do get your friend back,” she says softly. Then she and Reynard disappear.

 

“What exactly is the point of this goddamn lockdown if gods can appear and disappear at will?” Henry asks. He can feel a headache brewing between his temples.

 

As if to spite him, Martin chooses that moment to enter.

 

“Fuck my life,” Henry says.

 

All of Martin’s glamours have dropped, and his eyes are shining a bright gold.

 

“Ah good,” he says, and even his voice has changed, become higher and more childlike.

 

“You’re all here. Listen carefully children, you can’t kill Ember and Umber.”

 

“Yeah, totally already got the message thanks,” says Margo, “End of all magic blah blah blah.”

 

Martin blinks and turns his disconcertingly bright gaze toward her.

 

“The end of all magic?” he queries, turning his head inquisitively and Jesus this kid isn’t even old enough to drink. “No, nothing like that. I was talking about the wards around Castle Blackspire.”

 

There’s an unimpressed silence. Martin doesn’t notice, and Henry’s not one to judge but he suspects that whatever was in those brownies hasn’t brownies hasn’t worn off as Martin is being even more incoherent and unhelpful than usual.

 

“I’m afraid that I might have made things a smidge worse,” Martin says, “In that I might have inadvertently tipped Ember and Umber off. Oops? In any case,” he says, ignoring the uproar that his words are causing, “Time is short. Julia, I see that you’ve already been prepared. Good.”

 

And he walks over to her and places a hand on her temple. Really, Henry wonders, what is it about magical beings and a lack of personal space?

 

“It has been a pleasure meeting you all,” Martin says, “And I do apologise that it had to end this way. But it is for the best. This is the best help that I can give you.” The glow in his eyes is dimming, and he is becoming paler and more…insubstantial somehow, as if all his vitality was draining away.

 

“My dear Jane,” he murmurs, “Always had to show me up eh? Who says that an old dog can’t learn new tricks?”

 

The glow fades. Martin falls to the floor with a thump. There is silence.

 

“Is he dead?” Quentin asks.

 

Henry’s paralysis breaks. “Get Lipson,” he barks at Penny. He falls to his knees and grabs Martin’s thin arm, pressing his fingers to his neck.

 

“He’s still alive,” he reports grimly, “But his pulse is weak.”

 

He sighs and looks down at his old friend.

 

“Well Martin,” he says, “I hope whatever you did was worth it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that this is coherent? And isn't too rushed? Honestly I think that I'm just excited to be at this point! Let me know if things are unclear, and I'lll tell you if that's intentional or not ;)


	16. Margo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margo enters the endgame

“OK, what the fuck just happened?” Quentin asks.

 

Margo snorts.

 

“Obviously boy king over there just fucked us over,” she replies. “He’s right about one thing though. It’s time for us to stop stalling and get to work. We’ve got our weapon, some of us have become pretty damned good at Battle magic,” she glares pointedly at Todd who holds up his hands defensively, “So I say we down the dreamwalking brownies and let El know we’re coming to get him, kick some godly ass, and be back in time for cocktails. Capisce?”

 

Dean Fogg stands. Martin has been whisked away to the infirmary by Penny, Lipson following and casting increasingly intricate stasis and healing charms on him.

 

“Would these brownies be located on the table of the Cottage,” he asks resignedly, “Probably containing a large amount of illegal substances?”

 

“No!” says Alice, “Of course not.”

 

There’s a silence.

 

“Very convincing Ms Quinn,” Dean Fogg says. “I believe that you may have a slight problem with step one of your plan Ms Hanson, as those brownies have already been consumed.”

 

“What?” Margo demands, “If any of those spineless first years were stupid enough to touch them, I’ll rip their fucking spines out and use them as a conversational piece!”

 

“Please restrain the urge Ms Hanson, however understandable,” Dean Fogg says, “The Board is already unhappy at the student mortality rate. In any case, it wasn’t them. I’m afraid to say that it was Martin who ate them.”

 

“What, all of them?” Quentin asks, “There was enough for seven people there!”

 

“Why would Martin even want to visit Fillory?” Julia asks, “It doesn’t make sense. He wouldn’t even go near the Button when we brought it back from Plover’s house.”

 

“Penny said that Jane was in Eliot’s mindscape, right?” Alice says, “And Martin was talking about her before he…before he collapsed.”

 

“I want to know what he did to Julia,” Kady says, “Because no offense babe- “

 

(“-Babe?” Quentin asks incredulously)

 

“-but I think that two enigmatic assholes doing some freaky unexplained shit to you in less than five minutes is pretty alarming.

 

“I feel fine,” Julia says, “I mean I don’t feel any difference.”

 

Margo ignores them all and whirls around to face Todd. She jabs a finger at his chest.

 

“Go and find Josh Hoberman right now,” she demands, “And get another batch of brownies as soon as possible!”

 

“I, er, I would love to,” Todd stutters, “But I mean, Josh said when he made the last batch, he said that he didn’t have any ingredients left. And that he wasn’t able to resupply because of the lockdown.”

 

“It wouldn’t matter in any case,” Julia says gently, “You heard what Martin said. Ember and Umber know that we’re coming. Our only chance is to get to Fillory as quickly as possible and try and regain at least a bit of our advantage.”

 

Margo stumbles to the floor.

 

“He’s going to think that we abandoned him,” she says blankly, “All this time… I can’t even tell him that we’re coming for him. He hates being alone.”

 

She blinks quickly, trying to keep the tears from spilling. She’s Margo fucking Hanson. She doesn’t do feelings. Apart from apparently she does.

 

There’s a warm hand around her shoulders.

 

“Hey,” Todd says. She bats at his hand, but he doesn’t move.

 

“Get up,” Kady says, “You’re fucking useless to him like this. You think that you can perform battle magic when your emotions are this screwed up? Look, let’s be honest things are bad. We don’t know whether Eliot would have even believed that we weren’t hallucinations even if we had managed to incept him. Honestly, it wouldn’t have made a difference. The only thing we can do now is go save his suicidal ass, and then I promise that I’ll sit on him while you inform him exactly how much he fucked up. Yeah, he didn’t exactly have a peachy childhood. None of us did. But you don’t see us spiralling down into this death wish bullshit.”

 

There’s a pointed cough from behind.

 

“Not helpful Quentin,” Kady hisses. She turns back to Margo.

 

“Eliot isn’t alone. Because he has you Margo. And you have us. So there had better not be any kind of self-sacrificing bullshit in Fillory, because that just means that we have to arrange another rescue mission, and honestly? I have better things to do with my life.”

 

Kady stares pointedly around the room, her eyes lingering on Quentin especially.

 

“Well shit girl,” Margo says, “I didn’t expect you to be the inspirational speech type of person.”

 

Kady scowls.

 

“I’m not. But Margo…you’re not alone either. You have us. All of us. And we want Eliot back as much as you do.”

 

There’s a burning sensation in Margo’s throat but she ignores it. It’s time to stop being such a ballsack and get back to work. She stands.

 

“Right,” she barks, “We get our shit together and meet at the Cottage in an hour. Don’t forget to bring the Button Q. Kady, when you go to get Penny from the infirmary check if Martin’s woken up. I have no time for his enigmatic bullshit and his ‘not being able to work against Fillory in word or deed’ crap. Alice, I hope that you and Julia found a fucking good unBinding spell because we are going to need it. Todd… you stay here. Your Battle magic’s shit, and I need someone to look after the Cottage for us.” _And I don’t want you to get yourself killed._

 

She strides out, ignoring Todd’s protests that of course he’s coming with them, pausing only to scoop up their God Killing sword. No way is anyone else going to get the pleasure of ripping those fucking gods apart, end of magic or not. Anyway, Iris had only said that they couldn’t kill them: Margo can think of a lot of ways to make their life unpleasant without technically killing them.

 

An hour later Margo is staring down at the Button. It really doesn’t look like much. If she was prone to melodrama (the unawesome angsty sort, not the carefully calculated amount of fabulous decadence that she and El practise) she would say that it’s the symbol of her ruined childhood. Sure, she doesn’t wear it on her sleeve for anyone to see like Q, but the Fillory books were always special to her as a child. Sitting alone in her house, desperate for someone to see her… She had empathised with Martin’s desire to stay in Fillory at any cost. The knowledge that Fillory was nothing more than an elaborate honeypot for magicians so that they would ‘willingly’ become living batteries, that Martin’s banishment had been carefully planned by Ember and Umber so that he would experience the maximum amount of suffering to increase his magical potential before being enslaved… It’s devastating.

 

 “So are we staring at it or are we going to get going anytime soon?”

 

Penny’s annoyed voice breaks the tension, and Margo almost feels like laughing.

 

“Wait!” Quentin says as they all reach out to touch the Button,” Don’t you think that think that we should say something first? I mean we’re about to embark on an epic Quest to save one of our imprisoned friends. That seems like we should mark it, you know?”

 

Margo feels her lips twitch.

 

“Are you calling El a damsel in distress?” she asks.

 

“No! I mean, maybe?” Quentin says.

 

“Dumbass deserves it for getting kidnapped,” Margo says, “But we aren’t having any speeches because Kady beat you to the punch and there’s only so much I can take. No,” she raises a finger warningly, “One inspirational speech per Quest, those are the rules. You can take the next one.”

 

“No you can’t because after this there aren’t going to be any more Quests,” Julia says firmly, “This one is enough.”

 

Julia looks over at Margo carefully.

 

“I mean,” she says, “I know that this is my fault. If I hadn’t made Eliot come with me to confront Mike in the first place none of this would have happened. And I can’t say how sorry I am.”

 

“Hey!” Penny interjects, “We’ve been over this: if you hadn’t freed Reynard someone would have. And rapist gods are everybody’s problem.”

 

“I don’t like you,” Margo says to Julia, steamrolling over Penny, “But I’m a functional adult. I contain multitudes. I can not like someone and understand that they made a mistake at the same time. Anyway, it’s not your fault that El’s been fucking groomed to have a low self-esteem and a willingness to jump into shady-looking portals since childhood.”

 

Over the months she’s had time to think, alright? And Todd’s surprisingly helpful to talk to. Plus, she’s destroyed a hell of a lot of Brakebills property. These things give a girl perspective.

 

“Enough talking,” Kady says. “Everyone knows the plan?”

 

There are nods all around.

 

“Right, “Margo says, gripping the hilt of the sword.

 

“Everyone touch the Button on three. Make sure to touch it at the same time: there’s no way in hell I’m coming back to pick up your asses if you miss this trip out. One. Two. Three.”

 

There’s a tugging behind her navel ( _I’m using a fucking Portkey!_ she thinks) and then they all disappear.


	17. Umber

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Umber does his best to become an only child.

Chapter 17: Umber

 

“I take it you felt him?”

 

Ember snorts.

 

“I know you think that the only thing I care about is bedding dryads, but I’m not stupid. Of course I felt him. It would be hard to miss.”

 

Martin Chatwin. The one that got away. Not that his sister was anything to scoff at: her despair at her brother’s abuse had indeed been satisfying, and the power of a willing sacrifice was always considerable. But still. A god’s first was always special.

 

“Martin Chatwin,” Umber repeats, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that he dared to return.”

 

“It’s a pity that he was only dreamwalking. Imagine what we could do with the power of _two_ High Kings: they might even generate enough force to maintain the wards indefinitely.”

 

Umber sighs, images of all the new projects he’s been forced to put on the backburner dancing through his mind. He has so many ideas, entire worlds where order reigns supreme and a true Utopia is established. Everything in its place, nothing left to chance… Paradise. But he doesn’t have enough magic or time. Even with the humans they are barely holding on. Finding and preparing them is so time-consuming, not the mention the fact they have to be present at each ritual to reaffirm their Divine status to the gathered FIllorians, and to boost the High King’s life force with their own seed.

 

He shakes his head.

 

“No, there’s no way that he’d ever properly step foot back here in Fillory. If we’d known that he was coming… we might have been able to trap him or pull him through the dream. But there’s no point in thinking of could have beens. Not when we have so much work.”

 

Ember grins.

 

“Ah yes! The little humans’ rescue plan.” He chuckles to himself. “I can’t believe that the mortals really thought that they could astrally project themselves into Fillory for months without us noticing.”

 

“Now be fair brother,” Umber says tightly, “If I hadn’t been monitoring Whitespire then I doubt that we would have caught it. One human’s astral form is easy enough to dismiss.”

 

“Yes, yes, you’re brilliant and do all the work.” Ember says, “Meanwhile I have been preparing for the actual battle.”

 

Ember reaches into the Between and pulls out a shining knife. Its blade shines with arcane sigils that are so dark that they appear to trap all the light in the room. It looks familiar.

 

“I paid a little visit to the Knifemaker,” Ember says casually tossing spinning the blade in his hand, “and he made me this little treasure. Lovely isn’t it? Stab a magician and their magic starts to get pulled out of them.”

 

Umber squints at the blade. It is indeed an impressive instrument, and the sigils looks incredibly familiar…

 

“Ah,” he says, and he can feel a cruel smile forming, “I take it that the stolen magic is drained into Fillory?”

 

“Exactly brother mine,” says Ember, gloating, “And even better: It takes a rather circuitous route. You see, the blade is to us and though us to the High King. We can access the stolen magic of course, but whatever we don’t use pools in the connection between us and the High King, causing not inconsiderable pain, before being funnelled into the bond between Chosen and land.”

 

“So,” Umber says slowly, savouring the words, “Every time one of his friends is stabbed it drains their magic while also deepening the Bond and making it harder for them to rescue the High King? How….poetic.”

 

“I thought you’d like it.”

 

Ember tosses an identical blade at him, and Umber can feel the power and potential oozing off it as he catches it.

 

“You know brother,” he says, “We have had our differences, but it’s at times like this I remember why we make such a good team.”

 

There’s a shiver in the magic, and both brothers tile their heads upward. Yes, definitely a breach in the walls between worlds.

 

“Shall we?” Ember asks jovially, and Umber flashes a sharp grin in response.

 

Castle Whitespire is a mess. The entire East tower is on fire, and the corridors are filled with a dark acrid smoke. Umber can’t see any guardsmen and the only sign that they might have been standing at their posts are bright streaks of blood every few feet.

 

“Well they certainly move fast,” Ember says. His cheeks are ruddy and he’s clearly itching for a fight. In contrast, Umber only feels a quiet despair. Yes, it had hurt to be banished to a world (that they had created) and to have to sacrifice their own life force and magic to hold back an ancient evil. But Fillory had been the first proper thing that he and his brother had created. Umber has memories of lovingly crafting each individual tree and leaf, working long hours for eons while his brother was off carousing. Fillory is the work of a lifetime, and these stupid Earth magicians are destroying it.

 

“I’m going to rip them limb from limb,” Umber says grimly.

 

“That’s the spirit brother!” Ember roars already charging forward to find the intruders.

 

Umber trails along in his wake. He can’t feel any anger: he can’t feel anything. Once this is over, they may have to dip into the Wellspring itself to harness enough magic to repair all of the damage. Well, the High King can afford another ritual or two. It’s only fair: after all these are his friends who have invaded.

 

Ah. There. Umber spots a bright, gaudy blue. He approaches, gazing down at the bedraggled and very much worse for wear figure of Tick Pickwick. Honestly Umber is surprised that he’s still alive. He’s crouching behind a pillar holding a sword that he evidentially has no idea how to use in one hand, and a thick ledger in the other.

 

“My Lord,” the slimy mortal gasps, “Thank-well, thank you godliness that you have arrived to save us! Demons my Lord, demons have infiltrated the castle. There was a great bolt of thunder from the clear sky, and they were upon us: demons wielding the foulest of dark magic.”

 

Umber places a steadying hand upon Tick’s shoulder, pinning him down underneath the weight of it and preventing him from rising.

 

“Tell me, most honoured servant,” he says, remembering to gentle his tone. They all have their roles to play after all, “Tell me, where are the demons? And where is your King?”

 

“High King Eliot is in his chambers,” Tick says nervously, “I thought it best that he be protected my Lord, of course. The knifemaker’s daughter, Fen, she went with him. Along with a contingent of guards. I don’t know where the demons are, my Lord, forgive me. I thought only to find you.”

 

“Indeed?” Umber mutters.

 

He doesn’t believe him. While an excellent Chief Councillor, he is not unaware of Tick’s character. If the magicians had made their intentions of freeing their friend clear…well, he has no doubt that Tick would immediately head in the opposite direction.

 

“Most loyal of servants,” Umber says solemnly, “Your service has pleased your god.”

 

And with that, he plunges his new dagger into the man’s side. Tick is as magical as the average Fillorian: not enough to actively generate his own magic, but with a low buzz that’s come from generations of Fillorians having soaked up the ambient power of the Land.

 

Umber closes his eyes. He can feel the power, weak as it is, being sucked in through the knife and-ah! There. He doesn’t touch it, but feels the faint sparks move through his connection to the Chosen. There’s an echo of pain, and Umber knows that the brand that marks the High King as theirs is burning. The implications of this are astounding: he wonders how much power he can funnel through the knife before the High King’s heart gives out. Probably not an insignificant amount… Maybe it’s time to reinstate annual sacrifices.

 

He stands up, kicking Tick’s corpse away from him. Ember is long gone, off to indulge his more violent impulses, but he isn’t worried about his brother. He can take care of himself.

 

“Do you really think so?”

 

Umber smiles.

 

“Little sister!” he says joyfully, “Back for another visit so soon?”

 

“Yeah, well it looks like it’s the season for asshole elder brothers,” Iris shoots back. She has her arms crossed and is carefully avoiding all the puddles of blood.

 

“I have to admit that I’m impressed with the humans,” she says, “I mean I knew that they were talented, but it’s been what, five minutes or so since they got here? They work fast.”

 

Umber grins.

 

“That’s exactly what Ember said.”

 

He absently starts to clean the dagger in his hands, being careful not to nick himself.

 

“In all honesty sister, why are you here? As you can imagine it’s not the best time. I also got the impression that you were a little upset with us. What was it you said? That we’re dead to you?”

 

Iris scowls.

 

“I stand by what I said,” she snaps, “But I couldn’t just stand aside. Not now I know what you’re doing.”

 

A flash of fear runs through him.

 

“Iris,” he says urgently, “You promised. You swore that you wouldn’t tell- “

 

“And I didn’t,” Iris cute him off, “Although I didn’t exactly have a choice you dick. That doesn’t mean that I can’t help to stop you though.”

 

“What have you done?” Umber asks slowly.

 

“You always though that you were so brilliant! The artist of the family, all of Ember’s talent and none of his whoremongering ways. Much more creativity than either of your younger brothers, and more power than your little sister. Well,” Iris pauses, “You’re not wrong. I don’t have your power. But I don’t need it.”

 

“What are you talking about!”

 

Iris laughs.

 

“Can’t you feel it brother?” she mocks, “Go on. Try.”

 

Umber growls and stretches his senses out. He feels the High King easily. He can feel the Children of Earth, dim sparks running around in several groups (although several of them seem strangely dim). He can feel his brother, who has nearly caught up to the largest group of intruders. He can feel his sister, more muted than he remembers. He can feel…

 

“What is _that_?”

 

“I was inspired by you brother,” Iris says, “So I went out and made my own little god-touched. Although oops, it looks like someone gave her a little additional boost!”

 

Umber can feel it. A proto-god. A seed has been planted and has taken root, fed by his sister’s power, and by…He concentrates. He knows that power. Martin bloody Chatwin. He should never have let him escape, sacrifice or no sacrifice.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” he says, “It’s still two against one. And she’s untrained. No better than a human really.”

 

“That’s your problem,” Iris says, “You have no respect for how devious humans can really be.”

 

And then Umber feels it. Old magic. Powerful magic. And a hole in his being, an emptiness where his brother…

 

“How could you?!” he howls, “Ember is your brother too!”

 

He charges at his sister. He needs to hit something, to destroy, to take as Ember has been taken from him. Iris doesn’t move. She just stands there as Umber brings the dagger forward and stabs her.

 

She does scream then, and Umber feels her life force rush out of her and through him, and then suddenly there is screaming everywhere, his sister and in his head, and even he is screaming in rage and in pain and in betrayal.

 

Then silence.

 

There are two corpses on the floor. There are about to be many more.

 

And Umber, covered in his sister’s blood, half mad, goes to find his brother’s murderers.


	18. Eliot II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is used to pain

Pain. Not unusual honestly. Even before this-whatever this is-pain wasn’t an unusual feeling. And ever since the second ritual at the Summer Solstice…Well, he’s got very used to the tiredness and apathy that he can never shake. Not to mention all the bloodletting: what the fuck guys? What is this medieval bullshit?

 

(Somewhere in the back of his head he can feel something Other. A land, a place, and in the middle of it a seeping wound that Eliot instinctively buries buries buries until he can’t feel Blackspire and whatever lives there)

 

So yeah. Pain: not a new sensation.

 

“Your Majesty?”

 

Great.

 

Eliot looks up blearily. It’s that girl, the Knifemaker’s daughter. She seems nice, a bit timid, but as she’s generally the one slicing his hand up, Eliot thinks that no one will blame him for hating her.

 

“What,” he croaks back.

 

“You’re awake!” she cries, “Oh thank the twin gods.”

 

“I’m hard to kill,” Eliot says, “Like, stupidly hard now. Now Phlegm, tell me what’s happened?”  

 

“Fen,” she corrects timidly, “And there-there was an attack. You were knocked out. My Lord Tick said that I should protect you.”

 

Eliot snorts. Fen has been doing exactly the opposite of protecting him, let’s be honest. And the way she looks at him… As if he’s the answer to everything. Like he’s the culmination of all her dreams, something otherworldly and not quite real. A symbol to pin her hope on. Which, ok, he does enjoy that sort of think every now and then but honestly, he enjoys it when things are a little more consensual.

 

“Do you know who’s attacking?” he asks. Honestly he doesn’t give a damn: in fact he hopes that whoever’s attacking the castle burns the entire thing down. With himself in it preferably. Because he recognises his surroundings now that the blinding headache has died down slightly.

 

His room. His prison cell. Decadent to a fault of course, with soft furnishings and rich fabrics everywhere, but that doesn’t change the fact that the walls are solid stone and the doors don’t open no matter what magic he throws at them. Anyway, he can’t ever get a good amount of damage done because as soon as the first tremors or bangs are heard by the guards…Well out come the drugs. And not the fun kind.

 

This whole thing is definitely a case of wanting versus having, because if anyone had asked Eliot if he would be down for as many drugs as he can tolerate, and servants that wait on him hand and foot with minimal responsibilities he would have been down for it. Of course this hypothetical scenario wouldn’t have accounted for the crippling loneliness: somehow Brakebills has destroyed all his childhood defences, and now he aches for someone. Anyone. Margo preferably, but really anyone at all would be appreciated. Even Todd. Eliot figures that this unfamiliar longing is why he’s been hallucinating so much.

 

“Demons I think,” Fen says. Her voice is trembling. She’s scared. _Good_.

 

“They came throwing fire and wielding powers that only the Gods and their Chosen should possess. They’re, they looked so _angry_.”

 

“Wait,” Eliot says, “Powers that only the Gods should have? Are they, are they like me? Are they magicians?”

 

“They nothing like you,” Fen says fiercely,” You’re divine. They’re just creatures of destruction.”

 

“Destruction my ass,” Eliot retorts. Control is getting harder to maintain. He tamps down his frustration. Fucking Fillory.

 

“Look Fen. Please. Are they like me? Because I think,” _hope wish want_ , “that they might be my friends. I think that they may have come looking for me.”

 

Eliot lets himself think about it, lets himself hope. That Q’s beautiful brain had realised that Fillory wasn’t just a children’s fantasy story, or that Margo hadn’t given up on him and was tearing down the walls between worlds to get him back, or hell that Julia had noticed that there was something off about the portal that he had stepped through all those months ago.

 

And then.

 

A thrum.

 

In his head _inside his head_ where he should be safe feeling of possessiveness, of pain, of abandonment. Fillory. Demanding that he not leave her alone.

 

And suddenly Eliot can’t think anymore.

 

“…Majesty. Your majesty. _Eliot!_ ”

 

Eliot groans.

 

“I think that’s the first time you’ve called me by my name,” he says.

 

“I’m sorry your Majesty,” Fen says, “But you just collapsed and I didn’t know what to do.”

 

“No,” says Eliot, “I mean it’s a good thing you used my name. No more of this your Majesty shit.”

 

He tries to think about his family, his actual family, coming to get him, bringing him home to Brakebills. But he…can’t…quite…reach. He just can’t grasp it.

 

He’s shaking. The room is shaking with him. He can’t. He can’t. Thinking, imagining home has been the only thing keeping him sane. The one thing in this nightmare.

 

There’s a goblet at his mouth. He can smell the sickly-sweet scent of the spiced wine that’s used to mask the taste of his medicine.

 

“No!”

 

He strikes out. Then he freezes, expecting the guards’ rough hands at any moment, restraining him, the wine being poured down his throat anyway with Tick’s oily, obsequious voice reassuring him that it’s ‘ _for your sake Majesty, you mustn’t forget to take your medicine’._

Instead there’s a squeak, and a crash as the goblet is knocked out of Fen’s hands.

 

“What…”

 

Eliot’s throat is dry.

 

“Where are the guards?” he asks.

 

“They’re meant to be just outside the door,” Fen says. She’s made no move to clean the spilt wine and it is slowly seeping in to one of the plush cream carpets.

 

“Maybe the demons have- “

 

An axe is splitting his head open. The part of his mind that isn’t his anymore, that he’s designated other: it’s burning and there’s a sense of deepening and widening…he can _feel_ an ancient glee something alien and terrible and he can feel horror and loyalty betrayed and a spark of life snuffed out, and he can see a body on the floor and there’s satisfaction in it because the body he sees-it’s Tick’s.

 

But the power…the power that runs through him like fire, like burning, that runs straight through him that he can’t touch that he can almost touch that he doesn’t want to touch.

 

He faints. He’s not proud of it but it happens. Ovary up and deal with it.

 

(He misses Margo)

 

He comes to what he assumes is a few seconds later, to Fen’s worried face hovering above him.

 

“Urgh…” he groans.

 

More pain, and isn’t life being a fucking bitch right now? This time the vision is clearer, he can visualise it almost perfectly through the haze of red. A beloved sister. A traitor. A goddess. The power that runs through and out of him is stronger than any he’s felt before. It seeps out through this stupid mental bond that he’s somehow established or has been established with stupid fucking Fillory and it winds itself into his brain, intertwining with his ever neuron until he isn’t sure where he begins and Fillory ends.

 

He can’t. Escape. The Land won’t let him go. It’s impossible for him to extricate himself. Umber is mad and he is mad and the Land is mad and he killed his sister oh god and his brother is dead and he’s all alone and there’s no one coming and even if they were he can’t escape because he’s trapped trapped trapped…

 

Objects in his room start to levitate. The drapes rip themselves to shreds. Eliot can sense Fen cowering underneath the bed but it doesn’t matter because the bed is rising next and it destroys itself against the walls, bashing into them again and again and again until it’s nothing but splinters and Eliot wishes that he could do that just throw himself against an immovable object until he’s no more but he can’t because the Land won’t let him and it’s in his head now it’s in his head-


	19. Quentin II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin is jealous.

Fillory is majestic. Even knowing the cost of the golden sunlight and rolling fields, Quentin can’t help but feel a thrill as looks upon Castle Whitespire.

 

“Dude, are you writing crappy Fillory poetry in your head?”

 

“Hey!” Quentin protests, “It’s my head man. And it’s not. Crappy I mean.”

 

“Ladies shut the fuck up, we don’t have time for this.”

 

Margo steps between Penny and Quentin. She’s got the god-killing sword clasped in him hands, its blade stained red from where she’d cut through various bandits and cannibals in the Neitherlands. She sheaths it with a quick, practised motion. Quentin is relieved that he won’t be ‘accidentally’ stabbed.

 

“You,” she jabs Penny in the ribs, “Take Kady and start creating a distraction. You’ve been scoping out the place for months: you know where all the weak spots are. I want explosions, I want fire, I want Whitespire ready to crumble as soon as we get Eliot out of there. _Comprende_?”

 

Penny nods. There’s something dark and savage on his face.

 

“Wait,” Quentin says, “Don’t we kind of need Penny to show us where Eliot is?”

 

Margo waves a piece of paper at him.

 

“I got Penny to draw me a map,” she says, the placement of her eyebrows screaming _no duh_ , “And I figure that between the tracking charm Julia’s wearing, and very Star Trek Beyond guys giving your significant others homing beacons as presents, and the fact that you can’t shield to save your life that Penny’ll be able to hear us if we make a wrong turn.”

 

Penny groans.

 

“You mean I actually have to listen out for that loser?” he asks.

 

Margo punches his arm. Hard.

 

“Yes,” she says, “Because if either of you dickheads mess up this rescue mission in any way you won’t have to worry about Ember and Umber. Because I’ll find you and you’ll have bigger things to worry about. Like your missing nutsacks.”

 

“You’re right,” Quentin says, “There are more important things.” He swallows. “I take it we’re going to be the ones actually infiltrating the Castle?”

 

“No, I thought that we’d sit out here and watch all the pretty explosions. _Yes_ we’re infiltrating the castle Coldwater. You and me? We’re escorting the Ravenclaws over there so that they don’t get themselves killed before they can destroy the binding on Eliot.”

 

Quentin frowns.

 

“I really think that Alice is more of a Slytherin than a Gryffindor…” he starts, before aborting when he sees the look on Margo’s face.

 

She nods in satisfaction at his cowed state and then pulls out two long metal staves. Quentin has no idea where she’s hidden them, given her form-fitting outfit, and he isn’t sure that he wants to know either.

 

Margo concentrates, the air around her growing cold, and the axe heads are forming on top the staves. They are beautiful: exquisitely crafted, the sun refracting through them creating hundreds of tiny rainbows. Elegant and deadly: very Margo.

 

“Nice one Elsa,” Penny says approvingly, before wincing. “Oh shit…” he groans, “I fucking shot myself in the foot with one. Coldwater, if you don’t stop singing ‘Let it Go’ in your head, I will stab you.”

 

Quentin frantically tries to build up his shields. They look fine to him…

 

“Ugh,” Penny groans. “Never mind,”

 

He stalks over to where Julia, Kady, and Alice are clustered, practising hand movements and checking the Circumstances. He says something that Quentin can’t hear and then, pulls Julia into a quick hug. He takes Kady’s arm and then they both disappear.

 

A moment later the East tower explodes.

 

“Nice,” Margo says, “Penny gets shit done. And talking of getting shit done, that’s our cue.”

 

She strides forward imperiously, never looking back. Quentin hurries forward to follow her, startling when he feels someone slip their arm around his.

 

“Did you ever think we’d this Q,” Julia asks, “I mean, yeah it suck because apparently our childhood dreams are based on propaganda written by a paedophile, but. Still. We’re in Fillory!”

 

Quentin feels himself smile involuntarily.

 

“We are,” he says, “And hey, maybe the gods are assholes, but that doesn’t mean that it all is. We can visit the Whispering Dunes,”

 

“Find the cosy horse,” adds Julia.

 

“See whether the flying forest actually flies!”

 

They smile at each other and Quentin remembers why Julia is his oldest friend, his childhood confidante. They haven’t had a moment like this in a while, some time to just be them. What with all the rapist gods, the kidnapping gods, the epic Quests for retribution… Yeah, they maybe need some time to remember that they love each other.

 

They encounter surprisingly few guards, and the ones they do meet Margo generally manages to dispatch with a quick swing of her axes. Quentin has no idea where she learnt to do that: was she getting extra tutoring from Martin or something?

 

But on the whole, the castle is pretty deserted. That might have to do with the ridiculous amount of dark, acrid smoke filling the corridors.

 

“Jesus,” Quentin mutters, whipping up a small spell to protect his mouth, eyes, and nose against the smoke, “What did they do, start dropping smoke bombs through the roof?”

 

Julia laughs.

 

“Wait,” Quentin says, “Did they seriously?”

 

“Figuring out how to set them on a timer was the trickiest part. But once I’d talked to Josh about it…” she shrugs. “It all fell into place. Alice helped as well.”

 

Wait, Alice had helped as well? When had they had time to do all this? What had he been doing at the time? Quentin squashes a flash of jealousy, watching Alice and Julia exchange a small high five.

 

 No. There were more important things to think about. Things like getting Eliot back so that he can drag him to therapy and make sure that this sort of thing never happens again. No need for antidepressants my ass. Quentin is half tempted to tip a year’s supply into the school water supply, because god knows they all need them.

 

CRASH

 

Huh. His head is ringing. And there’s something sticky dripping down his neck. Quentin slowly lifts a hand to his face and squints down at it. It’s red. His hand, not his face though his face may also be red? Who knows really. Maybe that’s what Fillory does to you. Turns the whole world red red like a red red rose.

 

There’s a high-pitched whining in his ears. Quentin should be a lot more worried about that than he is. As it is he’s just tired.

 

He painfully shifts. Through a fog he can see Margo desperately exchanging blows with a large hat with a funny man. A funny mat. No wait, neither of those are right. The hat seems to be winning in any case: Margo has been driven to her knees, axe-heads melted, and weapons kicked aside. The hat has a sharp hat pin in hand and he’s going to stab Margo with it. Huh. Quentin feels like he should be a lot more worried about that than he is, but all he can seem to summon up is a detached bemusement.

 

Through the true and tried method of squinting and slowly turning his head from side to side, Quentin manages to spot a flash of platinum blonde. Alice? She’s slumped against the wall opposite him and she isn’t moving.

 

Wait where’s Julia? Where is she? Has she finally left him? And who turned on the lights?

 

His eyes are burning painfully now, and he squints harder to try and protect them against the sun which has decided to descend from the sky and invade Fillory with them. Good on it. Quentin vaguely regrets cursing the sun so much as a teenager. It seems that’s actually an aright bloke.

 

The sun moves in front of him, and Quentin can see a head and hands and feet and-wait is that Julia? Julia-not-Julia moves forward, and with a wave of her hand the hat-man-horn-thing is thrown away from Margo. He looks like he’s mouthing something, but Julia-not-Julia takes no notice. Another sharp gesture and the hat pin wrenches itself out of his hand and stabs itself into the hat-man. Hat man. Like batman.

 

Well that’s ok then. It’s where hat pins belong. In hats.

 

The sun is making its rounds Quentin giggles to himself. Potentially literally, he still can’t hear anything. First Julia-not-Julia touches a hand to Margo, who immediately shoots up and goes looking for her axes. She circles around to Alice next, and Quentin should warn her Alice is not a morning person. She’s going to get kicked out of bed if she’s not careful. Quentin would warn her, but the ground is so comfortable and he’s so tired that he can’t get up.

 

Julia-not-Julia is coming toward him now, and the glow is concentrating itself in the palms of her hand which she places on Quentin’s head. Mmmmm warm. Like toast.

 

Then with a jerk, the world comes rushing back.

 

Quentin stares down at the body of either Ember or Umber on the floor in front of him. The body of a god. Of one of the twin gods of Fillory. Of whom both Martin and Iris had warned them not to kill for separate, equally terrible reasons.

 

“Oh shit,” Quentin says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It turns out that I really can't write concussed people??? Oh well, I hope you enjoy :)


	20. Penny II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penny gets a headache

Penny carefully shapes another bolt of battle magic, nodding in satisfaction as it flies true and hits a who-the-hell-knows-how-old tower. He needs this. Some way to let off steam, some productive way to get rid of the stress and the fear and the anxiety of the last few months.

 

The fact that he happens to be doing it with one of his best girls? Bonus.

 

“Nice work!” Kady yells into his ear. She’s got two homemade bandoliers full of smoke bombs strapped to her waist and is making a game out of hitting guards and particularly obsequious-looking courtiers in the head with them before setting off the enchantments designed to gently suggest that people vacate through the nearest exit, ie the hole that Penny has just blown into the wall. All while simultaneously maintaining the spell that’s allowing the two of them to hover ten feet in the ear like particularly murderous birds.

 

Fuck she’s amazing.

 

Watching the throng of people deserting Whitespire driven by the ‘Somebody-else’s-problem-bomb’, Penny thinks that actually Julia is pretty fucking amazing as well. Even if she has a really shit taste in names.

 

(Penny had advocated for ‘Notice-Me-Not’ as a name, but had been shouted down by Julia, Kady and, surprisingly, Alice who it turned out were all huge Douglas Adams fans.)

 

“I think this tower is clear,” Penny says.

 

There’s no movement that he can see. And anyone stupid enough to stay in an exploding tower being attacked by two flying magicians while choking on smoke expressly designed to send them fleeing… Well, all Penny can think is that’s a textbook example of Darwinism in action, survival of the fittest and all that crap.

 

“Well then,” Kady says, “I think it’s my turn to have a little fun.”

 

She winks at him.

 

“Brace yourself and watch out for the recoil.”

 

Penny hastily gathers the strands of the flight spell, only barely managing before Kady pushes and with a large BANG the entire tower crumbles into dust. They’re blown back several feet from the force of the blast (he’s good ok but that was a fucking large concussive force), but at least they’re still in the air.

 

“Shit Pen,” Kady says and she’s laughing now, “That was a good one. Any chance you’d be willing to let me demolish the last one-”

 

Another explosion rings out and the North tower half collapses. Kady frowns.

 

“That wasn’t me,” she says but Penny can’t hear anything more because-

 

Fuck there’s something splitting into the side of his head and he can feel the pounding of his blood in his ears and he’s lost control of the spell and they’re plummeting down but he can’t tell because the pain and the fear and what was happening to Eliot what had happened to him-

 

“Damn it Pen!”

 

Kady’s hands are a blur as she quickly works to regain control of the spell. She just manages, catching them at the last minute so that they crash into the ground relatively gently.

 

Penny doesn’t notice any of this. Penny is too busy frantically raising his shields, cutting off a developing psychic bond with Eliot (and when had that happened?) so that he has enough mental capacity to think, to do anything but curl up and shriek with pain. And then he’s hit with Quentin and his stupid-ass thoughts (hat-man? Really?) and he doesn’t have time for this he has to pull himself together and find Eliot and fucking kick his ass for worrying him.

 

What the fuck could have happened to that dumbass? Last Penny had seen his (this morning) everything had been going according to plan.

 

This? This mental attack? This meant that something had gone wrong. Badly wrong.  

 

“We have to get to Eliot,” he gasps,” Now. It’s urgent.”

 

Kady doesn’t bother asking why, just grasps tightly onto his arm as he Travels them toward the source of the pain.

 

They appear in a storm of flying objects. Penny can’t see anything through the swirl of splintered wood and scraps of bright fabric. He jerks back, narrowly avoiding a shard of metal to the throat. His forearms and exposed face sting, and he realises that there are small shards of glass mixed in with the larger debris. Kady swears, low and pointed, and pushes Penny behind her as she summons a shield to protect them.

 

“Can you see him?” she asks, terser than usual. Her hands are trembling as she fights the magic that Penny can feel permeate every inch if this room.

 

_paindespairhurtfreeillneverbefreewhyabandonedwherelonlinessdespairletmegoletmegogetoutpleasegetout_

“No,” he says wincing as he tries to block the feelings out,” But we have to find him. Quickly. This is only going to get worse if we don’t.”

 

The duo moves forward slowly. Each step is a struggle, and Kady shapes her shield into a more aerodynamic spear, sacrificing safety for speed.

 

Penny stumbles, and shit there’s a body on the floor. That Fen chick. Penny has only seen her at rituals, but he knows who she is. She sometimes appears in Eliot’s dreams, her face inextricably linked to the feeling of drain and fatigue and loss of self.

 

“Is she alive?” Kady asks.

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Penny snaps back, “The best thing we can do is find Eliot and get him to stop this.”

 

“Wait. This. The hurricane of deadly objects. That’s Eliot? It’s not just some weird ass security measure?”

 

“No it’s him,” Penny says grimly, “I can feel him in the magic. And he’s telekinetic: that’s his speciality. His control hasn’t been as good recently, especially not with- “ _being drugged every time he starts to lose control._ _Being a prisoner for over a year. Thinking all his friends abandoned him._

“-everything,” Penny says.

 

“He’s powerful,” Kady says.

 

“It’s not just his power- Wait. There! Do you see that?”

 

In the furthest corner of the room, there is a bubble of calm.

 

“He has to be there,” Penny says. Kady nods shortly and they make their way over, step-by-painful step.

 

Eliot is there. He is squeezed as far back into the corner of the room as possible, his head between his legs, arms wrapped around himself.

 

“Eliot?” Penny says gently, crouching down.

 

“It’s me. Penny. I’m not a hallucination, I promise. Eliot? Can you hear me?”

 

He reaches out slowly and touches Eliot’s shoulder.

 

“Come on dude, you’re missing the epic rescue here. Let me in. I can help you.”

 

The chaos around them quietens gradually, the tornado slowing and then stopping altogether. It’s unbearably quiet. Penny can hear Eliot’s panicked breathing.

 

Eliot still hasn’t moved.

 

“We’re doing this the hard way then?” Penny asks, “If you’re thinking about sex in there you’re going to owe me so much therapy.”

 

And Penny closes his eyes, brow furrowing as he consciously lowers his shields and enters Eliot’s mind.

 

And then he starts to scream.


	21. Julia II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An act of love.

For the first time in months, Julia knows exactly what to do. Something happened to her, between being thrown into a wall by Umber and waking up. For one, she’s pretty sure that she died. For another… She thinks that she saw Iris. Maybe. It’s all gone blurry now.

 

But she knows what to do. And she feels amazing. Full of strength and energy and free of the self-loathing and doubt that has been plaguing her for months. There’s nothing and no one that can get in her way. Not even a god.

 

She stares dispassionately down at Umber lying on the floor. After so long planning and researching, after so much time worrying and wondering… It was so easy to kill him. They hadn’t even needed the sword imbued with Reynard’s power to do so, Umber having provided his own god-killing weapon.

 

“Margo,” Julia says, “You should take the dagger.”

 

Margo stares down at Umber’s corpse. Then leans forward and gingerly grips the dagger. She pulls. It doesn’t budge. She pulls again.

 

“For fuck’s sake,” Margo grumbles, “Did you have to embed this so far into his heart?”

 

Julia rolls her eyes and makes a sharp gesture. The knife flies out and Margo jerks back to avoid the spurt of blood that comes with it.

 

“You did that on purpose,” she accuses, eyes narrowed.

 

“Er guys?” It’s Quentin. He still looks bad despite Julia having healed him, dried blood flaking on his neck. Not like Alice who, the moment Julia had revived her, had shuddered in a disgust and performed a quick cleaning spell to remove the blood. Quentin looks like he can’t be bothered.

 

“Don’t you think that we may have a bit of a problem here?” He gestures at the body.

 

“I know what you mean Q,” Alice says, “But there’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s done. We just need to find Eliot and get out of here before the Old Gods notice and shut off magic.”

 

“It’ll all work out,” Julia says serenely.

 

“How do you know that though?”

 

“I just do.”

 

And she does. She feels it with every fibre of her being, that she knows how to solve this. She can make it all right again.

 

“You’re right though,” she continues, “We do need to get going. Before Ember finds us.”

 

She extends a hand.

 

“Give me the sword Margo,” she says.

 

“What? No! It’s mine. I’m going to chop Ember’s fucking head off and mount it over my fireplace.”

 

“You don’t have a fireplace!” Quentin cries, “And I thought we were trying to avoid killing more gods. Does no one else remember the two separate warnings that we were given not to kill Ember and Umber or is it just me?”

 

“I’d get one just for this,” Margo says. She stares at Julia’s outstretched hand.

 

“Fine!” she slaps the sword into Julia’s palm, “But I’d better get it back. Mama wants some tasteless hunting trophies.”

 

Julia concentrates. She can feel it. Power. Godly power burning bright gold in her mind’s eye. The sword is wreathed in it. She swings it once, twice. There’s something about having a sword in her hand that brings back memories of her childhood, of the long summer months pretending to rescue Quentin from judgemental dragons. With one enthusiastic swing she forgets how long the sword is and it clatters against the stone floor, throwing up sparks.

 

“Smooth,” Margo says.

 

“Oh shut up.”

 

Ok. She needs to actually concentrate now. Once again she brings up the sword and she inhales. The golden light flutters and slowly is drawn into her mouth. Julia breathes out, feeling the additional power. The power of two gods and an immortal sorcerer. All residing in her.

 

“Now we’re ready,” she says and starts walking away, ignoring their protests.

 

She doesn’t bother looking at the map that Margo’s still clutching like a lifeline. She knows exactly where she’s going. Because there are two other sources of that godly gold. And Julia’s pretty sure which one is the Eliot.

 

She walks further into the castle.

 

They only make it twenty more minutes, spent in tense silence as they all keep a look out for Ember, before they hear it. The screaming. Inside their heads.

 

“Penny!”

 

Julia runs through the twisting corridors, unerring making her way toward Penny and Kady. Because she can feel it, the pain that Penny is broadcasting and it’s enough to crack her façade of serenity.

 

She bursts through a pair of sturdy (if battered) doors, and sees them. Kady, looking helpless, and no she promised Kady that she would never have to feel that way ever again. And them. Penny and Eliot. Slumped against each other. Deathly still.

 

And like that the calm returns. She knows what to do.

 

“Fuck, Eliot!”

 

Margo pushes past her and runs through the room, ignoring the scattered glass and splinters of wood littering the floor.

 

“El? El baby. You have to wake up now. Wake up El.”

 

There’s a gasp behind Julia.

 

“Are we too late?”

 

“No,” Julia says, “We’re not.”

 

She carefully picks her way through the debris and kneels next to Eliot.

 

“Julia…” Kady sounds wrecked.

 

“I know,” Julia says, “I’ll fix it. I promise.”

 

Margo looks up at this, and there are tears. Actual tears. She’s holding Eliot’s hand in hers, so tightly clasped that Julia can see whites of her nailbeds.

 

“He’s trapped,” Julia says, “Trapped in his mind. He’s got a bond with Fillory: I can see it.”

 

It’s a thick rope, about the size of a clenched fist, extending from the side of Eliot’s forehead and disappearing into the ground. It’s grotesque in the original sense, simultaneously invoking feelings of discomfort at the bizarreness as well as pity. But it’s beautiful: it’s made of pure magic and need and every now and then Julia can see a flash of blue in the shining strand that must be Eliot.

 

“Eliot was going crazy. Making things fly all over the room. Pen…” Kady trails off. “Pen didn’t tell me what he was going to do. But he said that he could feel him. Psychically I mean. I think he tried to enter Eliot’s mind to help when he didn’t wake up.”

 

“And then he got trapped as well,” Alice says.

 

“I need to weaken the bond,” Julia says softly, “Pry it loose form Eliot’s mind. And-” she hesitates, “I’m going to need you all to help. There has to be a source of magic for Fillory. The land is alive and it’s trapped in an eternal battle against something dark. Something trapped…”

 

She can almost sense it. Something dark and old and monstrous, fighting always fighting against Fillory, wanting to be free.

 

“I need to transfer some of the connection. And it has to be a living host.”

 

Silence.

 

“Wait,” says Quentin, “You mean that we’ll be connected to Fillory as well?”

 

“Yes,” says Julia, “And the more people the better. Gods have been driven mad, but their problem is that there’s only ever one or two of them. With enough of us… I think we can do it without going crazy.”

 

“Oh. Without going crazy. Well that’s great,” says Quentin.

 

“Nobody’s ever done anything like this Q,” says Julia, “I don’t even know if it’ll work. But it’s our best shot.”

 

“I’m doing it,” Margo says, “I don’t care if it’s a fucking one in a million chance. If there a possibility…”

 

“I’ll do it as well,” Julia says, once it’s clear that Margo isn’t going to say anything else.

 

“Me too,” says Kady. She shrugs. “Look, Julia’s going to do this whatever I say, and I trust her not to mess up. Plus, I don’t think that Penny’s going to leave Eliot alone. And whatever we do? We do together.” She looks up at Julia.

 

Quentin clears his throat.

 

“Right,” he says, “I’m doing it too. I mean epic quest that might end in death and/or insanity? Nothing that we weren’t prepared to face. And Fillory! Even if it is pretty screwed up. And…Eliot was my first friend at Brakebills.”

 

“And me,” says Alice, “I-well I’ve never really had friends before. Other than Charlie, I mean. And I don’t want to lose one of them.”

 

“Together then?” Julia asks.

 

“Together.”

 

She breathes. Raises the sword delicately and reaches for the magic. A sword isn’t exactly a magic wand, but it’s better than nothing. She forces tendrils of magic into the sword until it’s glowing brightly.

 

She takes Eliot’s hands and, using the sword like a conductor’s baton, she slowly carves pieces off the gold bracelets until she has six golden balls hovering in the air in front of her.

 

“Hold out your hands,” she says, voice taut with effort, “Quickly.”

 

The balls elongate, forming splitting themselves into two and forming slim golden bangles that slip over each outstretched wrist, tightening themselves and settling into place. She drops the sword, a dull grey once again, exhausted. They all gaso simultaneously as they feel the magic settle.

 

“There,” she says, “I think that’s done it.”

 

And she can feel them. All of them. In her head. Kady’s fire and Penny’s loyalty and Quentin’s belief and Alice’s curiosity and Margo’s anger. All of it swirling around inside of her. And something Other and strange and overwhelming that makes her think of dark wells and deep places, lurking in wait. She shudders and tries not to think about it.

 

“Well, well. Isn’t this a nice little gathering of human magicians.”

 

And suddenly there’s a compressive force around Julia’s throat and she _can’t breathe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter I think!


	22. Margo II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end.

 

Margo has been waiting for this moment for months. The moment she hears the smarmy tones of the second billy goat gruff, she doesn’t do anything stupid like panic, or freeze up, or get nervous (unlike some people she could name, and god is this her life now, hearing six idiots in her head?). No, she’s in motion, knife in hand and throwing it straight at his fucking face.

 

He sees it just in time and, with a wave of his hand, deflects it, sending it clattering out the door. But it breaks his concentration, and Julia falls forward, gasping and holding her throat.

 

Quentin hurries toward her.

 

“Jules,” he whispers, “Are you ok?”

 

Satisfied that she was being taken care of, Margo turns her attention back to tall, dark and kidnap-y.

 

“I’ve been waiting for this moment,” she growls, taking out her staves and concentrating. They grow cold in her grip, and then there is ice creeping out from her hands and transforming them back into axes.

 

There’s a touch on her shoulder, and she glances back to see that Kady’s behind her, arms raised in a familiar stance.

 

“We both have,” she says.

 

They exchange a nod. They understand each other, the two of them.

 

Ember laughs.

 

“You foolish mortals,” he says, “You really think that you can take on me. A god.”

 

“Why not?” Alice asks. She’s also taken up position next to Margo and Kady, and more importantly in front of Eliot and Penny, still unconscious on the ground.

 

“We managed to kill your brother.”

 

Ember’s face twists in rage, and he charges forward. He’s holding a bloodied dagger by his side, and Margo briefly wonders whose blood it is before realising that she doesn’t care. Kady shoots a powerful blast of magic at Ember, but he runs straight through it, stumbling slightly which is the only thing that prevents the dagger from sinking into Alice’s side. Instead it grazes her arm, and and and

 

Pain. Explodes in Margo’s head. It feels like she’s being electrocuted, like there’s fire tearing its way through her entire body. She can feel the other screaming in her head, and it’s the worst kind of feedback loop their panic and confusion twisting around and the Land becoming stronger and stronger as it sucks in the nourishment of Alice’s magic.

 

Margo falls to the ground, or at least she thinks she does. Everything is blurry like she’s underwater (or just really, really high) and her mind is so overwhelmed with just feeling that it can’t deal with petty things like vision or touch or sound.

 

What the fuck is that?

 

But she knows. Because she can feel Alice in her head, feel her panic and helplessness as she feels her magic drain into the dagger. It’s a good thing that Ember missed, because Margo is certain that if it had hit its mark then Alice would be dead and the rest of them would be unconscious.

 

Not that it makes much difference. Because no matter how much anger Margo feels, no matter how much loathing she musters from deep inside herself, she can’t move. And if she can’t… Well, none of them can.

 

The ringing in her ears is fading. She can hear footsteps.

 

“I can’t believe you’ve made my job easier for me,” Ember says. There’s a manic quality to his voice.

 

“I thought that I’d have to do it the old-fashioned way, one by one. But by linking yourself you’ve made it so much easier for me. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

 

He laughs shrilly.

 

“In a way,” he says, “You’ve done me a favour by killing my brother. The chaos that he brought. The way that he would ruin things just because he could. I can make something better without him. Something more orderly. Especially since I have seven little batteries. Enough for an eon. Just as soon as I complete the binding ritual.”

 

Great. He’s monologuing. This is more painful than the paralysis.

 

“I’m afraid that Margo’s never been a fan of gold jewellery. She thinks it’s tacky.”

 

Eliot?

 

“High King. How are you still standing? Your mind should have been absorbed into Fillory by now.”

 

And Margo can feel him for the first time, in her mind. Slightly broken and battered, but so utterly Eliot that she could cry.

 

“You made a mistake. Pain? Feeling my sense of self fade? Old school now. I’m used to it. What you didn’t take into account was how I’d react when I felt my _friends’_ pain. They pulled me out of my mind. And guess what? When I woke up, I found that I could do a few cool things. Like this.”

 

A wave of magic. And then there’s silence.

 

Then… there’s a touch on her shoulder and a feeling of warmth and protection and love and-

 

-she can move again.

 

She stands up, ignoring the nausea and the throbbing in her head, and turns around.

 

“El?”

 

And there he is. Looking determined and exhausted and pale (and fuck he’s definitely lost weight and that probably means his relationship to food has been fucked over again) but alive. And that’s enough. He’s crouched over Alice and Kady, touching them gently on the head. Julia is already sitting up, head down between her legs (and Margo sympathises she has the worst hangover) and Quentin and Penny are already beginning to move.

 

“Hey Bambi,” he says, and he smiles at her. It’s a crappy smile, weak and too wide and hiding all his pain, just shoving it down so that he won’t worry her.

 

She flings himself at him and hugs him.

 

(She can feel his bones, and she’s going to fucking fillet that bastard Ember)

 

Eliot hesitates, but slowly lowers his hands until he’s hugging her as well. Margo can feel the moment he relaxes, resting his head on top of hers and she takes a moment to just. Be.

 

Only a moment though. Because she has some serious butt to kick.

 

She steps away from Eliot and turns to face Ember. Who’s frozen, his eyes darting between them anxiously, and Margo recognises the paralysis spell that Martin taught them. The one it took them months to master.

 

“Do we have some sort of mind meld thing going on?” she asks.

 

“Yeah. When I woke up, I found I could just-access all this knowledge you guys had. Very Borg.”

 

Margo snorts.

 

“We need to work on our pop culture references El. This is totally more Sense8 than Star Trek. I’m not sure I want to be assimilated. But they got one thing right-”

 

She picks up the abandoned sword, the one that they had drained Reynard’s power into and then used as a magical dousing rod and holds it out with steady hands.

 

“Resistance _is_ futile.”

 

She smiles, making sure to bare her teeth.

 

“My brains too scrambled at the moment: can you find the spell Julia used to drain a god’s power?”

 

“Yeah, hold on a moment.”

 

A moment. Margo can feel him concentrate, feel him search their minds and memories and it’s disconcerting not just because of the whole legilimancy thing but also because El-he doesn’t just feel like Eliot anymore. There’s something _other_ in is mind. She carefully doesn’t react. Because she’ll get used to it. They all will. She’ll make sure of it.

 

“Got it,” he says and starts chanting. They needed three people to work this ritual back at Brakebills, but then Margo figures that in a way there are seven of them casting this.

 

Golden light streams out of Ember and into the sword: when it’s done Ember is looking more terrified than ever.

 

(Good.)

 

“Now lets kill this son of a bitch,” she growls.

 

“Wait,” says a voice. It’s Alice.

 

“So help me,” she growls, “If you’re going to say something like ‘don’t stoop to his’ level I’ll shove this sword straight up your-”

 

“No! And I don’t want to know how you were going to end that sentence. I meant-we should all do it. Together.”

 

“Not a bad idea,” Penny grunts, “Because god knows all of us want to stab this son of a bitch and there’s only so many times he can die. Unfortunately.”

 

He reaches out and clasps Eliot’s shoulder briefly before changing his mind and pulling him in for a proper hug.

 

“I wasn’t a hallucination,” he says, “And god I don’t know whether that makes it better or worse. But I was there, and I saw what they did to you and I’m sorry that I couldn’t help.”

 

“You were there?” Eliot repeats, façade cracking, “You saw-”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Confessions later,” Margo says. She’s watching Eliot carefully (she’s never stopped) and she can see that he’s fading, that his energy has nearly been depleted. They have to wrap this up quickly. They don’t have time for him to fall apart, not yet. And not in front of Ember. Later. Later she can take him home, back to the Cottage, and hold him and feed him and make sure that he isn’t going to slip away, not ever again. Later. For now-

 

“If we’re doing this together let’s get going already.”

 

The seven of them all crowd around the sword, laying a hand each on the hilt. Matching gold bracelets gleam, and Eliot’s eyes are drawn to them.

 

“Oh god,” he says, “I’m so-”

 

“If you say sorry, I’m going to hit you,” Kady says flatly.

 

Quentin nods.

 

“We made a choice,” he says, unexpectedly confident, “And we chose you. And I know that you don’t believe us but it’s not your fault.”

 

“Seriously guys, less yapping more stabbing,” Margo says. Julia (still looking unsteady and shit yeah she did expend a ton more energy than the rest of them) laughs, a high relieved sound.

 

“On three?” she says.

 

“One.”

 

“Two.”

 

“Three!”

 

And they move forward as one, the sword slipping easily through Ember’s flesh. The god falls to the ground. Dead. Margo would have preferred a slower death but eh. Dead is dead.

 

Eliot stares down at the corpse. Then bends over and starts laughing hysterically.

 

“It’s over,” he says, “Fuck. It’s actually over. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

 

Penny reaches him first, but Margo isn’t far behind. Together they ease him down to the floor and the others join them, circling Eliot so that he can no longer see the corpse.

 

“El,” Margo says, “We have so many fucking problems. You have no idea. Or maybe you do. We may have fucked over the multiverse, turned off magic for everyone, released an ancient evil, trapped ourselves in a dystopian world, pre-industrial world. The list is endless. But I don’t care about any of that crap. Because I-no because we have you back. And you know what? All those problems? We’ll get past them. The way we always do. Together.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're finally at the end! I hope you enjoyed it :)   
> I started this fic January 2019, straight after having mainlined three series of the magicians in like two weeks and while I was impatiently waiting for series 4 to start. It was my first fic in the magicians fandom and it was the thing that kickstarted a creative streak that (touch wood) shows no sign of stopping.  
> This has been a wild ride, and I want to thank everyone who has read, commented, or left kudos on this story because you are the reason that I've managed to finish this!
> 
> (PS I'm marking it complete, but there may be an epilogue. I have no self control. Who knows?)

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I binged the Magicians, and I am excited for series 4 next week, and my brain produced this? Somehow? I have no idea how my brain produced this. This is set in a kind of alternate timeline where one thing is different and it changes things. I think it may be spoiler-y to say what that is though.  
> 


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